Without my imagination, I would be like the forgotten, smelly hitchhiker trying to find a ride but now knowing where to go.
My imagination is a being of its own, a second existence inside of me. Sometimes it roars like a lion when a creative craving comes, like an empty stomach announcing its hunger to a room of staring strangers.
My imagination is a dark, wild forest. There is no structure, no written maze inside. Just trees of wonder to climb and trails to get lost in. Exploring this forest is crucial to my sanity.
Without my imagination, I am silent. I am standing alone at a party. My head down, hands awkwardly pinned to my side.