Literary Narrative

As a child whose only sibling was much older, and whose friends lived too far away to play with on a daily basis, I turned to my own imagination for stimulation. I would create fictional worlds, and enjoy hours of playtime in them. Most of the time these worlds would be enjoyed in physical locations around my house or outside in my back yard. Rarely did I write them down or return to them for that matter. Playing with little green army men or flying spaceships made out of toothpaste boxes were the norm, and I had many wonderful adventures in my fictional worlds. As I reached my teens, I became much more of a social person, and my imigination slowly relinquished its its hold on my everyday life. I made friends in nearby neighborhoods, and as my parents grew more financially affluent, my playthings became more sophisticated. Goodbye to the toothpaste box spaceship, hello G.I. Joe jet planes. For a period of about thirteen years, my imagination seemed to suffer at the hands of things like popularity, necessity to work to provide food and shelter for myself, and essentially the daily grind of life. Only after returning to college at the age of twenty-eight, and majoring in my true passion, English Literature, were my eyes unclouded. I am living in accordance such childhood dreams as being happy with less, and exploring the best of what life has to offer. Alas, I'm a poor, but happy student.