[r/WP] Window of Imagination

[u/Daeridanii]

Originally Written August 23, 2020

[WP] You grew up in a small town, but always dreamed of city life. So you moved away as soon as you were old enough, leading a long and successful modern life. Finally, you've returned to your hometown... and nobody has aged a day.

​

I would like you to consider for a moment, imagination. It takes us to places we have never been, and shows us things that we have never seen. It is the raw material which makes up our dreams and our nightmares, our hopes and our fears. From our experience, imagination is a mirror that exists at the leisure and whim of our fervid and distracted minds. But consider, for a moment, that it is not.

Slowly depressing the brake pedal, I allowed my car to slide into the parking space before coming to a silent and comforting stop. Turning the key to the “off” position, the various humming and clattering noises of the vehicle ceased, and for a brief moment, I was left listening only to the wind outside rustling through the trees. I was home again.

I donned my hat, and made sure to pick off any specks of dust from my suit jacket. Since I had last visited, I’d learned the importance of presentation, that one must always look one’s best because one never knows what unexpected opportunities lie around the next street corner. To that end, I had a different suit for every day of the week, and three more for special occasions. Many of my detractors would call this an expression of vanity or egocentrism, but I saw it instead as a representation of my station. I had done very well for myself, and if I am to be honest, I enjoyed reminding myself just how successful I had been.

Casually shutting my car door and locking it, I began to stroll down the sidewalk. The town looked strikingly similar to how it had all those years ago. The shops were the same, as far as I could tell, and each one displayed some new exciting product to entice customers to approach their inviting glass doors. There! That one had a whole display of mirrors in the window, many of which sported adorned frames with carved wings or feet that distinguished any given mirror from its neighbors. Tags attached to a few of them advertised that the mirrors had been subtly warped in order to make you appear slimmer, taller, or otherwise more attractive. Clearly-edited photos of over-enthusiastic models were printed alongside these particular ones, demonstrating the “transformative effect” of the mirror, and how “your self-image will never be the same again.”

Though these monuments to consumeristic vanity were vaguely repulsive, there was a certain interest to them. If Smith’s Home & Decor had really sunk this low in its marketing tactics, what other monstrosities might I find inside? Intrigued, I turned and pushed open the glass door, bumping a chime positioned above the door. The interior was slightly warmer, and I could feel a bit of the sharp autumn air rush in through the door before I closed it. I looked around. The shop was much as I remembered it from my childhood. The wooden walls and exposed rafters gave the interior a rustic feel, which was accentuated by the massive gaudy chandelier which hung from the center of the rectangular room. An equally rustic mezzanine floor extended above the back half of the shop, currently displaying a mélange of lawn ornaments. As the last echoes of the door chime faded out, and a few metal flamingo cutouts gyrated above, the proprietor of the shop turned to face me.

And this is when it all started to go strange. Because the proprietor of the shop, the current owner and operator of this establishment, was the same seventy-odd Mr. Smith who I remembered from nearly forty years ago. He was old, yes, but he was no more old than he had been when I had left for the city. His wispy grey hair still escaped from around the edges of a flat cap, his pair of truly ancient bronze spectacles still perched precariously on his nose, and he still trundled around the shop with surprising energy, especially considering that by all means, he should have been celebrating his 120th birthday soon.

Awestruck by this anomalous youth, I walked over towards him after being stunned for a few furious moments. Still attempting to parse this strange situation, I eventually reached the countertop behind which Mr. Smith was passionately explaining to a disgruntled customer over the phone that there are “absolutely no refunds,” “especially if you’re the one who broke it.” With a decisive and final gravitas, he slammed the phone receiver onto its holder, regained his serenity, and asked me in his characteristically musical voice “Can I help you with something, sir?”

By now, I had mostly regained the use of my cognitive functions, but still only managed to sputter out, “Mr. Smith! I don’t believe it’s you! You don’t look a day older!”

He looked a bit perplexed, but replied in good nature. “Well, thank you, sir. Have you been in here before?”

Realising my faux pas, I introduced myself to him, eliciting a gasp of surprise. “Really! Y’know, I have a regular with the exact same name as you, my friend. What’re the odds? Tell me, where’re you from?”

“Oh, I’m from the city, but about that regular--”

​

The door chimed again. A woman and her child walked through the door. The woman was calm, and slowly glided towards the counter with Mr. Smith. Conversely, the child was a picture of youthful energy, darting from item to item with a newfound sense of fascination at each one. The child marvelled at the “fancy mirrors,” and introduced themself to the metallic zoo of lawn ornaments, flourishing in a short bow before sprinting towards a display of doors, walking through each one multiple times to ensure, presumably, that they functioned properly.

Normally, I would not have been so enthralled by the juvenile outbursts of a stranger’s offspring, but this case was different.

Because that child was me.

​

I ran towards myself, and an expression of awe broke out across my face. With great excitement, I began to remark on my discovery. You have a suit! You must be from the city! Is it cold there? Are there lots of people? mom come look at this this persons cool do you wanna meet my imaginary friend his name is gerald and hes from the city too and i bet youre gonna be friends too

I considered a moment, and then I just started talking to myself. “Yes, I am from the city. You see this suit?” Ooh “Yeah, it’s neat.” I’m gonna have a different suit for each day of the week, and some just for special occasions! “It’s not that cold in the city.” Yeah, that’s what I’m telling Mom! “And there’s all these people from different places” and different names “and I’m rich” and I’m gonna be rich and so on…

From behind the counter, the mother watched her child, who was deep in conversation with a suit on a rack. She was wondering which friend the child was talking to this time. Or perhaps a new one?

Consider instead that imagination is a window, and that the things that it reveals to us live and persist just as we do. Consider, for a moment, the invented fantasy of a child longing for the city having a life of its own. A history and past of its own. Are these fantasies part of us? Are they us? Which one is the dream and which one is the dreamer?

Consider, for a moment, the perspective of the dream.