note: I wrote this post when I came back from visiting my father on Xmas. However I am publishing it now--

My father says that I am always sleeping. My father says that I believe in everything. He says that I have too much imagination, and that I believe in everything I fantasize about.

I think he's right. I am a victim of my own imaginative talents: I know it might sound cool but in fact it is a tragic weakness.
For one thing, I can't really rationalize to the point of discerning improbable from probable, because everything is equally probable too me. Be them news from the TV or stories of relatives and friends, I tend to participate with my imagination without any reasonable limit.
I can even feel physical pain --or the most intense emotions-- to the simple thought (I'd rather say 'vision') of what can happen to someone else, somewhere else, by the simple evocations of the surrounding details.

So it happens that my envy or empathy or jealousy (all lousy kinds of feelings) can turn out gigantic: because I feel the relative difference of experience between me and the people involved in the story in the most intense way.
Usually I cannot really limit myself to hear a story about someone and consider it as a story: I transform it in my mind in a collection of very solid (and mostly invented) experiences, just like a betrayed lover does thinking at the beloved with someone else: I see dust on the windowsill, sweat, faces, I hear voices and smell smells-- I rub a stain away from the glass, and close the window left open-- all the secondary stuff which is usually omitted from a story when we hear one (Saddam Hussein's double before the hanging defecating on the WC in the cell, reading a book of poems while from the outside come fainted voices of the city; the dust and flies and weird bird songs on the streets of the village where my stepbrother kills a cow with an axe; Leni masturbating thinking about some guy; small incidents and gross jokes at the conspiracy reunions for the latest terrorist scam, things like that).

Sometimes I can go on for hours or days consumed by visions like this, especially if I somehow feel robbed or cheated by them. Although I sometimes argue the basic credibility of many things created by my imagination, they remain too real to be fought with simple rationalization.
My father, who is a crazy and dangerous person persuaded to be rational, warns me: I am being irrational, I am morbid about the stories I hear because I need or want to prove similar experiences myself. We talk about this because he cannot talk of anything else regarding myself, the sum of it being too negative to be told.
My excited imagination, he implies, becomes so excited because my experience isn't excited at all. I think that that's what my father is trying to tell me. Because I have organized my immoral life trying to have more and more time to think and imagine, it is fatal to become cretin for too much brain activity.

He's probably right. Also he doesn't know that with all these ill talents in my pockets I notice a lot of things that usually go unnoticed, all petty stuff that distracts me and possibly --who knows? including beauty and drama.
However I don't know how to be without that (the preceding phrase should not be ungrammatical).

-- in picture, above: snoopy's imagination (1951, I think)