Open Minded

This was written by my friend Avery Dey who is 14. She has taken the Silva UltraMind training.

I was never smothered in her love or dread and that is why she could be anything. My grandmother's photograph unlocked a catalyst of imagination. Her picture still lingers, dusted over carefully, encased in a faded frame. A wash  of pastel, she dawns in the Technicolor of the forties. She was nothing without my imagination. The word dead seemed too plain next to her intricate features. Even though she was not there truly she was a fixture in my childhood. My grandmother has always lived, a starlet starring in the adventures of my mind.

Imagination is something we all have and perhaps it is because we suppress its power that makes us so dejected toward the future. the few who never lost it will discern everything in good time. Imagination is something boundless, intricately simple. It is comforting for everywhere you look it's essence is hidden. When you feel it has been lost, its mystery in turn leads you to something greater than reality. Imagination is the study of yourself and it hides within hour wildest dreams. When you have it you have everything you really need.

I would tell myself all sorts of stories and dream up her attributes. She was always living: in exquisite times, crafting  at what profession seemed adequate to my desires. Still I questioned....dead?

No one could understand how I could be so interested in someone so easily disregarded. Nothing could cure the curiosity that grew with every one worded answer I received. I learned the power of my own questioning and imagination. I am certain they hold a greater knowledge.

From this absurdity, I began to aspire to be this woman of whom I knew nothing of. I learned that I could be anything, it just takes the thought. I have always held fiction close, so that if I wake from this wonderful dream I may not forget the power of myself and my questions. I wish to never forget what comes through the thoughts, when you don't just accept what is.

The picture sits and still I wonder. My wonderings always contradicting each other, so that one idea will not ferment and become too powerful a thing as to ruin imagination. I cannot truly see the flaws and folds in the picture; alas I know they are there. I can see the beauty in her eye, the way it is illuminated as the sun hits the glass frame. I can see and I know who my grandmother was, she was a dreamer, and imagination never dies.