Up
until the age of seven or eight, I believed that if I thought something up in
my imagination, it became real.
A
fine example was The Mickey Mouse Affair. I was five years old when I told
my best friend that I had a “real Mickey, round black ears and all.”
“Where?”
she asked.
“He’s
under my bed and only comes out at night after everyone goes to sleep.” I said.
My
friend wanted one also. She told her parents, who then summoned me so I can
admit I made it up. I insisted my Mickey was real.
Kids.
This is part of the magical age.
Most
people outgrow this, or channel it only into the creative arts. A sad and bad
scenario for those who don’t grow up is when they apply this to politics.
Today,
I use my imagination to write fiction, which, as far as I’m concerned, becomes
real in its way.
©Carina
Povarchik
