The only problem is if your imagination is rampant in all the wrong ways. An imagination that is busy devising all the ways you could end it all. Be it planning and plotting or simply wishing; comically optimistic yet contradictory to the negative thinking that conceived the end in the first place.
The problem with this sort of rampant imagination is it detracts you from your writing and blocks your ability to tell stories to create. You become fixated and challenged; it can be all-consuming and debilitating.
Being obtuse and obscure about it all, to write about it, would be to admit it, to admit it would be to indicate that there is something wrong. But then is there really something wrong, maybe it really is simply a rampant imagination.
I had to ask someone before I could really recognise what it was, even now I sometimes catch myself in mid-thought and have to tell myself that it is not common or correct to wish you were dead.
What am I talking about? I am talking about the forbidden thoughts, and yet I know my imagination grabs them, looks for them. It’s a proximity thing; proximity could be on the street, out the front door, on my own verandah.
Or it could be a hundred miles away, simply a thought of fading, dissipating into the blackness of the night. If only I could channel the energy of this rampant imagination, into words, paragraphs, plots and more, to give words to my thoughts to the benefit of all.