Makes Sense

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Photography by Emily Kennedy

What if I told you that I could see an eight inch by eight inch sign from five hundred meters away and not only that, but read it too? What if I told you that I could not only feel a hand when greetings are in order, but feel the fibers that make up the skin cells? What if I told you that I could smell any kind of deodorant being worn from five stories into the sky? What if I told you that I could not only taste the creaminess of chocolate ice cream like you do, but taste through the creaminess, taste underneath it? And what if I told you that I could not only hear voices calling to me, but that I could hear them crystal clear from six city blocks away if I wanted to?

You’d probably think I was insane.

You wouldn’t be alone. Most bland-minded people do. Makes sense to them, I guess.

But the truth is, I’m not insane. Far from it. In fact, I’m more sane than you have ever been or ever will be. Why? Because I can really sense things. I don’t mean like seeing the future or anything, I’m not that strange. That’s for someone else to deal with. For now. But when you touch a metal bar in the winter and think, ‘Gee, that’s cold’, I touch it and feel each one of my metaphysical skin cells become suction-cupped to the icy, germ-ridden metal and scream in agony when I have to rip them away.

You see, where you think you know the world, you really don’t. I know the world because I can sense it. I can truly sense it. And because I can sense all of this, like it was meant to be sensed. I know things you will never know.

You are going through life blind by simply looking into the sky and seeing blue. Or looking at the moon and seeing perhaps, if you’re lucky, the faint outline of one or two craters. Because of this, you can’t know what the earth is. And to me, this makes you absolutely, horrifically insane.

You don’t know the senses like I do. To you, they’re just there. You don’t have to try and calm them down when they cry out in pain, nor do you have to keep them focused on the task you wish to accomplish when they get side-tracked from the roar of an airplane far up in the air. They don’t complain to you constantly when sad or yip excitedly at you when happy.

To you they’re just there.

But I have to deal with every single one of them. Every single one of those five. But I really shouldn’t complain, I suppose. Those five give me life. They make me the most important creation in existence. They make me number six. And that’s nothing to scoff at.

And yet, I’m so under appreciated. I could liven everything up all the time if the world let me. There is nothing out there like me, nothing that has such control over the things you use every day without even realizing their importance. I could make each passing day the most exciting you’ve ever witnessed. I could bring your attention to things you would never have noticed otherwise and improve your understanding of the universe.

But you trap me. You decide to keep me held in chains for almost every hour of every day. Oh, I get my chances. But they are few and rarely do I even get the time to build up to something truly great. You treat me differently, and so you should, but you do so in the incorrect fashion. You can’t understand my brilliance, what I could bring to the table to make everything become infinitely clear.

This is all your fault, really. The worst thing is you don’t even notice or even care. Even when I try to show you how fantastic I am, you exclude me. I’m tired of being forgotten. You only think of the five. The five are the ones that matter to you because they give you instant response. But they’re truly dull and not as glamorous as you think. They’re pale in comparison to me.

I need you to recognize me. To accept me. Number six.

I am imagination, your imagination, and I will no longer remain silent a

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