Once upon a time when my mind was brimming with imagination and my teeth were crooked and my aunt used to call me “shrimp” in an affectionate manner, I almost believed that I was a wizard. I would stare at objects for seconds that felt like hours, hoping that my mind would somehow defy all of physics’ laws and move a chair just an inch. I believed that the fictional world of Harry Potter was all attainable—once having left the real world through a mirror, of course. These things I all believed when my I was much younger. But now, what is left of my imagination remains locked up in a cage, only sometimes allowed to come out for a recreational break. I was once told that adults lose their imagination (hence why they are so boring). And yet, I refused to believe it. I always wanted to have my imaginary pet, Sparky, by my side. I always wanted to be able to have powers and have the ability to talk to the wind (one of my elementary teachers told me a story about how this kid talked to the wind, and it really got to me, okay?). But now, if I were to mention how Sparky was being naughty the other day and ate my homework, they would label me “insane” and “lunatic.” But then again, sometimes societal norms suck and it’s okay to be weird. BRB going to Hogwarts.