When we’re small we here so many wonderful stories, fairytales and such. They are incredible and quite an intelligent way of instilling morals into children. Interestingly, we forget so much that these stories were meant to teach and only remember them when we’re not consumed by our everyday existence. One thing that really stuck with me was the idea that there was a pot of gold waiting at the rainbow’s end. Whenever I looked out the window at rainbows the thought would enter my mind.
Although, science took the fun out of it too soon like it did with everything else. Spectrums, seven colours, etc. made it impossible to appreciate rainbows at face value. It was unfortunate really. I am pretty sure I didn’t really believe in the pot of gold before I learnt about the science, but it made rainbows interesting. I honestly believe that science reduces everything to boring consequences. I do acknowledge that some of the most imaginative people I know are engineers and doctors but that’s because they turn some very mundane things into useful objects that even the most creative soul wouldn’t be able to fathom.
More than the fairytales I was told, I liked creating stories of my own. Little tales that I hid from everyone because I wasn’t sure if they were good enough. I wrote a very bad novel when I was twelve, in a time when children were allowed a limited amount of time to spend at the computer, so I wrote 130 pages by hand, emptying my extra school notebooks on that story. In fact, when I ran out of ink and pens in a desperation to finish it I began writing with felt-tip pens. It was a terrible plot line and quite an unimpressive bit of writing.
This little bit of travel in the past few days has stirred much of my imagination. It kind of struck me while I was watching the lightning outside my window. There is a power of imagination. It’s not silly. I was a naive kid who kept hoping that magic was real and that whatever I read would one day come true. I desperately wanted every tale I heard and every magical thing in this world to be real. It’s why I still think that ghosts might be real. I am not as naive anymore and life has become quite boring.
We lose naivety as we grow up and while it makes us stronger people it definitely means we have very little faith. Even if we want to have faith we cannot. Little by little everything that excited us aschildren become more and more easy to understand and suddenly we have an explanation for everything. If we are asked to imagine, we can’t. We try, I don’t think anybody wants to be that way. Either we desperately try to make our dreams a reality or we give up on them casting them away as fantasy. One way or the other our dreams become more and more realistic, it’s not always a good thing.
Before I took time off I scoffed at anything that was unreal, I became too fixed on making my dreams a reality and lost sight of who I was. I was a whimsical person who said the most insane things and believed in the weirdest stuff. I looked for causation and reason in everything after that point. I had material dreams that were smaller, lackluster in comparison to my childish fantasies. While I hated it in one way I thought I didn’t have a choice. But it didn’t make things easier, in fact, it got harder and harder to believe. I wanted to but couldn’t.
I am slowly trying to regain my creativity. I am trying to read more fiction, read things that put my belief to the test. We learn to question everything when we grow up, but something like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is best left untampered with. It’s not that I am trying to go back in time, but it’s more like trying to bring what I left behind to where I am currently. I used to think that maybe my faith in stupid things like this made me less. One doesn’t always have to be profound. I enjoy fantasy just as much as I enjoy reality. But I’d like to see someone deny that fantasy makes reality a little more liveable.
The whole cause of my depression is that I became obsessed with reality. I became obsessed with myself in other words. I was so concerned about where I was and what I was doing. I forgot about just being. I always had to be doing something, breaking every glass ceiling. In the process ceiling only caved in on me and nothing else. Sometimes it’s better not to break through everything and just let it be.
Have you ever tried to stop running on a moving treadmill? I suspect you haven’t because it would injure you and who isn’t scared of injury? I also in no way recommend you try this. Think of life as this moving treadmill that adjusts itself to your speed, each of us has one and we’re all running and we can’t stop. But the only way to keep yourself sane and alive for the long haul is to do exactly that, is not to stop running but go at a pace that suits you. Obviously, if you stop like I did and that is suddenly, you will fall and it will be dangerous, almost fatal. I thought stopping was the solution, and bam! I became acquainted with depression. Now I know all I had to do was slow down.
We should believe that every cloud will pass, and every rain has to end. In short, nothing lasts forever. That is both good and bad. It means the bad will pass but it also means the good will too. In the little time we have, if we expend all our energy in one go and on life taking it so seriously there will be no reason to live any longer. But if you slow down to take stock of what is lacking, just let time do its thing maybe you’ll get to the end of the rainbow, maybe you’ll find your pot of gold too. I know I sound insane but if you know what I am talking about, you’ll understand. If not, feel free to laugh.