I was once told that I should be a writer. But I don’t think it’s for me. Partially because I just went to spell “it’s” and spelled “tis.” Maybe I used to be better, more creative, but more on point. Now I’m just another slave to the internet. I search memes and abbreviations and words that don’t exist or make sense. I also seem to write run on sentences with bad grammar. Maybe it’s just because I’m older. I used to tell my brother stories while we would sit in the car, waiting for my mom to come out of whatever store she was shopping in. Both my brother and I really enjoyed these times. Sure, we’d both rather be home doing our own things in our own rooms, but it was times like these where I’d concoct stories on the spot, and tell them as elaborately and longly (no that’s not a word) as I could, before our alone time was over. I miss my imagination. I think I threw it away in exchange for video games and movies. I don’t even read anymore. At least not fiction. I enjoy textbooks. Yes, you read that right: I prefer to read textbooks over novels. I like learning. Maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe I threw away my imagination so I could know more practical things. Tales about dragons and fantasy and fiction aren’t useful in real life. They won’t get you a job (unless, of course you pursue a job in an industry that utilizes fiction: movies, writing, game design), especially not one in accounting. I just kind of sit here, and think to myself: what am I going to do? I’d like to be creative again. I’d like to make time to be creative. But just like those people who put off working out because they’re too tired, or too busy, or just plain old don’t want to exercise, I’m putting off letting my mind explore completely unrealistic fantasy worlds, and that’s got to stop. Or start.