DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

“He has such a vivid imagination,” my teachers used to tell my mother.

I never knew if they were trying to say she didn’t really know me, or if they just wanted to show off that they did. That phrase usually came with a tight-lipped smile, the kind adults give when they’re trying to be nice but also slide in a jab. And more often than not, it was followed by the real kicker:

“He’s not working up to his potential.”

Now that was my favorite.

There’s something about the way that sentence lands. It’s got just enough structure to sound official, and just enough judgment to make your eye twitch. It practically begs for a dramatic eye roll. It sounds like it belongs on a report card, scrawled in red ink by someone who thinks they’re diagnosing your entire life after watching you color outside the lines once.

None of them saw it. Or if they did, no one said anything to me or my mother about the possibility of me becoming a writer.

So much for “knowing me,” right?

Imagination’s a slippery word anyway. It wears disguises. Gets called various things depending on the setting. When I’m working through a technical problem, people say I’m “innovative.” Which sounds nice—like a résumé bullet point. But back in the day, “innovative” wouldn’t exactly get you a date. So, whatever. That one can sit on the bench.

When I was sketching at parties or in libraries or wherever there was enough noise to ignore, suddenly I was “creative.” That one came with some perks. Dates. Curiosity. A little mystique. So I let that version stick around longer.

But my all-time favorite review? “It’s like there’s a whole world living inside your head.”

Runner-up? “Can I just sit inside your head and watch and listen?”

Let’s stop there for a second.

That second one sounds cool—until you actually think about it. Like, really think about it. Someone sitting inside your mind, watching and listening? That’s not curiosity. That’s creepy. You know that haunted doll energy.

—

I can’t remember the first time it happened.

But it always starts the same way.

The room begins to spin—not fast, not violently, just enough to let me know I’m not in control anymore. And then comes the sound.

It fills everything. The floor. The walls. The air in my lungs. I used to cover my ears. Used to bury my head under a pillow, thinking maybe I could muffle it, outrun it, block it out.

But there was no escaping it.

Eventually, I stopped fighting. I lay still and listened.

That’s when I realized: it was wings. A thousand wings. Fluttering, pulsing, stuttering in rhythm with my breath. Not birds. Not bats. Something stranger. Something older. They never landed. They just swarmed inside the air like static waiting to spark.

I call it The Madness.

It doesn’t hurt me. But it doesn’t leave, either. It waits for a crack—an opening. A sentence, a picture, a glance out the window—and then it rushes in, dragging stories behind it like a storm full of teeth and ink.

The Madness is a portal. A doorway. A window—nay, it’s my safe space. My special place.

And sometimes, when I come back from wherever it takes me, there’s someone standing outside the door.

—

Mom would come to check on me, like mothers do when they feel a disturbance in the Force.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s where that whole concept came from. They just made it sound cool in the movies.

She’d find me at my desk, scribbling furiously, or on the floor sketching something impossible. Somewhere between this world and… something else. Something I still don’t have a name for.

I just call it the void. Not because it’s empty. It’s not. It’s full of things no one else can see. I call it that because I don’t know what else to call it.

In those early days, you had to stay tethered—one foot in, one foot out. You can’t go too deep. That’s how you raise questions you don’t want to answer. That’s how you start slipping.

But half in, half out? That gets you labeled as “imaginative.” Or “quiet.” Or “a little aloof.”

Which is perfect, really.

—

I know it sounds like I had control of this.

But I didn’t. Not even close.

I’d be sitting in class, trying to focus on something profound, something that was supposed to matter to my future. Physics. Math. One of those subjects that builds bridges or lands rockets. The kind of knowledge that makes you useful.

And then it would happen.

No warning. No permission asked. I’d feel the shift—like my brain hit a soft patch and sank. One second I’m tracking equations on the board, the next I’m staring through them, seeing something else entirely.

Dragons nesting in the graph paper.

Planets orbiting around the tip of my pencil.

A character stepping through the number line like it was a doorway.

The teacher’s voice would stretch and blur. The room would fade. I’d float just high enough above it all to stop caring about whatever was “important.” Not because I was lazy. Not because I didn’t get it.

Because something louder, brighter, realer was calling.

—

And sometimes, when I disappear, I don’t go to war or into a storm. I go somewhere quiet. Strange, but calm.

It always begins with stillness. The world fades. Sound thins out. My body stays here, but my mind slips—not far, just far enough. Fog rolls in around my feet. The light changes. Something opens.

I don’t know exactly where I am. I never do. But I know I’ve been here before.

My fingers tighten around something familiar. A shape. A weight. It fits my hand perfectly. I adjust my armor—loose in places, snug in others, shaped by time and use.

The wind moves differently here. Like it knows secrets.

And then I hear it—soft hooves in the mist.

A gentle snort. Then a warm, wet touch on my cheek.

I turn.

Shadow.

My old friend.

He stands calm, steady, like he’s been waiting for me all along. His breath rises in small clouds. His nose presses against me like a question: Are you still in there? Are you coming back?

I stroke his head, my fingers brushing through his thick mane. He’s real here—more real than most things. He smells like woodsmoke and memory.

“We ride, my friend?”

His ears flick, listening. Ready.

“Where to?”

No answer. Just the wind.

“For how long?”

Still silence.

But it doesn’t matter.

I pull myself up, the saddle creaking beneath me. Shadow turns toward the road ahead—faint, shifting, unmarked. It never looks the same twice. But it always leads somewhere.

And we ride.

—

As a writer, I’m a time traveler of sorts.

Every time I sit down to write, it’s like stepping into Wells’ time machine—but I don’t just visit the past or the future.

I move through memories. Through emotions. Through versions of myself that never got to speak out loud.

And when I move, I do it invisibly. Not like Wells’ Invisible Man—no. Like Ellison’s. Moving through the world unseen, but deeply aware. My presence felt only in the stories I leave behind.

Like many with superpowers, it’s both a blessing and a curse.

To imagine deeply is to feel deeply. To create vividly is to remember painfully. To slip into other worlds is to risk losing track of your own.

But I wouldn’t trade it.

Because this is my favorite thing about myself. Not just that I imagine—but that I keep going back into the void. Back into the madness. Back onto the road with Shadow, with sword or pen in hand.

It’s not just escape.

It’s discovery.

And every time I return, I bring something back with me.

I love this ability about myself.

And I must remember to use these gifts for good.