News. Weather. Work. Death. The same events, repeated until the end of time. Only the names and places change. The continual monotone chatter hums like a refrigerator working overtime in Summer.
This hum, the canvas onto which our creative juices were splattered. Anything was possible; an undiscovered magical land where only you could stop time, touring the world as lead guitarist in the worlds newest rock band interrupted only by fantasies of your crush that came out of nowhere.
Imagination in children flows like water. It’s unconscious and free. For adults, it’s quantum physics. Often forced in a work meeting or in an attempt to spice up date night. Life is always standing in the way. From the exact moment you open your eyes right until the long sigh when you place your head back on your cool pillow, you are faced with nothing but accountability. Unbridled responsibility.
No wonder we consume so much trash, waiting for the weekend to release us from the rigid confines of formality. It’s the only escape they get.
So now we’re the adults. Someone else is dreaming of fantastical cities in space as we talk about the events that repeat themselves through time. News. Weather. Work. Death. Our daydreams are of cafes we might visit at the weekend and the possibility of ordering something different. How boring.
And we know we will order the same thing.