September 21, 2015 - 22:37
As a child, from my earliest days at preschool, I usually played alone. This was not due to social exclusion, or from an unwillingness to play with others; instead, I found the games most of the other children played just weren't as interesting as the activities I could do on my own. I could sit for hours on end in the sandbox, marveling at the texure of the grains, and the way they trickled between my fingers. I climbed trees frequently, earning me the nickname "monkey" from my mother, who felt that rather than trying to stifle my impulse to climb into the top reaches of trees, it would be better for me to learn my limits by myself, and offer assistance if asked.
If any of the other children wanted to play, I was perfectly fine with teaching them my games, but most of them just didn't understand my fascination with the sandbox, the trees, the grass; they felt no impulse to build fairy houses out of fallen twigs and leaves, or seek out the chicken coop next door and listen to the clucking. I was happily ensconced within my own imagination, and for most of my childhood I experienced two worlds: the physical world around me, and the myriad worlds I conjured from my experiences and surroundings.