Be it mundane or grand, evil or profound, what we imagine becomes our own self-fulfilling prophecy: the future we predict, and which we create thereby, is the present we are blessed or condemned to live. Imagination, therefore, is something we must tenderly cultivate and fearlessly explore. Held at bay, driven into hiding, it dwindles and atrophies. We become predictable, lifeless, and poor, and contribute little to the realm of possibility and the common store. Imagination is wealth. It is power. But it is neither of those things in the petty, destructive sense in which they are ordinarily coveted and conceived. To imagine ourselves living a life of excess and ease, surrounded by fancy material things, is to imagine ourselves in a state of selfish corruption. What good are we then, to ourselves or to anyone? To imagine ourselves in control of people’s lives and destinies, and even in control of their thoughts, which must be bent to our use and serve for our greater glorification, is to imagine ourselves as a tin gods and dictators. With our imaginations turned outward, though, like stars that give freely their light to the heavens, there is no limit to what we can accomplish and perceive. There is no limit to what we can be. Because our limits, too, are imagined. So many we have already transcended! So many have fallen away!
September 22, 2020
.
[ 878 ]
Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Diaries, Imagination, Journals, Power, Prophecy, Tin Gods and Dictators, Wealth