On This World and Imagination.

What a woeful week it has been. Trouble after trouble after trouble. Today was the worst of all (and it’s still only Friday.) I won’t offer any details; if I have to whinge, best keep it brief for the sake of self-respect.

And so tonight, sitting alone in my beleaguered abode and feeling physical symptoms which seemed to echo the mental degradation invoked by a week of woes, I decided to read one of my old stories again.

It was one of the earliest and not one of the best, but doing so reminded me that they were flights of fantasy which turned into remarkably realistic journeys. Walking again the ghosts of old pathways led to a sense that I did go somewhere in this life after all. And then it struck me that maybe imagination gives access to the best of many realities, and is thus a consummation most devoutly to be wished.