It’s Just My Imagination

THIS MORNING the sunlight and the breeze had me daydreaming about living on a farm as a child, splashing barefoot through a creek wearing overalls and a straw hat.

A barking dog looking out a window made me wonder who lived in that house, and I wound up inventing an old retired couple who only came out for doctor’s appointments and otherwise spent their days speculating as to when and from whom they might next be paid a visit.

I stopped behind a semi at a red light and in my mind a blizzard suddenly hit, leaving drivers stranded, and a handful of strangers piled into the semi’s cab together to trade stories about their lives while they awaited rescue from police driving snowmobiles.

I passed by a grocery store and created a zombie apocalypse in the parking lot.

I got a letter in the mail and decided my mailman is a serial killer.

I read a vague tweet and convinced myself it was about me.

I think I hear someone in my apartment right now, but surely it’s just my imagination.

I imagine things all the time.

With trepidation,

Tory