Posted on September 27, 2007


Last night on the drive home I imagined that I was sailing a sailboat across town. The few raindrops that fell onto my windshield were like a constellation unfolding onto the glass. I imagine it was my night sky and the red lights I had to stop at were sea ports. My sailboat cut through the darkness swiftly; gently. It didn’t help that the music playing made me feel like I had tripped into a movie. 

I remember you telling me all of these elaborate stories. We would stay up late; our computer screens lighting up the edges of our faces in the darkness. I spent my hours reading your words and letting your voice play through my head. Some may aruge (and I may argue with them someday) that it was a waste of time, an idle event built on nothing put our keyboards… But we had our imaginations.

You would tell me of how you were going to start writing messages in sidewalk chalk all through town. The townspeople would stir and soon newspaper articles and t.v. news stories would start to float to the surface about this midnight marauder who terrorized the sidewalks with positive messages made of chalk.

One time you had me convince you were going to hitch-hike to my house. You were a marvelous story teller. I remember conversations about how you were in the middle of writing the novel that was going to make you famous, how you were going to open a shop that sells leather-bound notebooks, how you would follow at my heels if I suddenly left for Africa, and how you were always the super hero in your dreams. Though sadly, like a child you could never hold onto anything except your memories for very long.

The hitch-hiking was a joke. The novels never turned out to be any logner than a few pages, the second leather-bound notebook couldn’t come together right so you became anger and abandoned it, and I never went to Africa.

You showed me a new meaning of imagination and what it meant to create dreams. Unfortunately, you also showed me what it meant to forget them.