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We imagine. Because it's not enough. Because the ground burns and the ceiling falls and the word tomorrow sounds hollow. We close our eyes and search for the secret fold in the world through which to escape without moving our feet. There, the ownerless forest is born, the city without clocks, the body without weight. There, everything is possible, except escape. Because there are times when imagination doesn't save, it only adorns the prison. It becomes a mirror, it multiplies, it shows you other versions of yourself that also don't know how to escape. And you fly, yes, but in spirals. You return to the same point with broken wings and the sky intact, too high, too blue to touch. The mind draws doors but forgets the keys. It creates windows that open onto the same room. Build stairs that go up in circles until you lose all sense of what was below. Everything is a dream but nothing relieves, you discover imagination also tires. Because you can't live only in silence with the possible. What hurts isn't reality, I think it's the failed attempt to abandon it without a body. And you're left floating between the "what if" and the "still here," with the feeling that dreaming without leaving is just another way of being trapped.

imagination

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