The nature of imagination is a curious thing
As a little girl she could blot out the wicked
And all good forthbring.
She would only ever really have to focus her eyes away from things of fear
And all manner of improbable impossible images would appear.
One day it would be a tall, dark, strong, man in the super blue and red
Flying in through the window
Pulling a chair up to her bed
And just telling a story.
Other days it would be a woman more beautiful than eyes would’ve seen before
Walking in through a closed door
Blowing perfectly styled hair out of her face
With the exact same impatience that were obvious in the child’s ways.
She’d hug and kiss her
She’s shoo bad dreams away
She’d cry tears because she cried tears
And all night she would stay.
Rocking her baby this way and that
Commenting on how thin or fat
Her little baby had grown.
This was the world where she was owned
Where she belonged
Where a mother sat
And wiped a wet nose with her hands
This was the real world
Where 5 year olds
Were granted permission to be little girls.
If she refuses to make sense in her mind
That men will be men and that’s fine
Then is she the crazy one?
Why is this man who flies and may use standardless modes of transport
Less real than those who harbour naturalless forms of thought?
Why is this woman whose dress soaks at the bosom
As she cradles a shaking and raking child
Less real than a woman who believes
That the child must be beaten as the village would a thief?
And if the parents of her mind are not real
Then how is she able to sing songs in a language she barely even knows
Songs she heard her mother singing real low
As she braided the hair of her little girl?
How is she able to still hear her father’s smooth baritone
In her ear as he told her the names of her forefathers
And all the great people from whom she was born?
Her imagination may not be real strictly speaking
But it is the reality that should’ve been
The real world all little girls should be seeing...
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