Holding On To Stories

Please excuse me while I make my experience this morning far more fantastic and magical than it actually was...
It all started with a light snowfall, a crow, and a college girl who wanted some breakfast. In case you were confused, that hungry girl was me, and I was heading over to campus this morning to get breakfast. It was cold, but not too harsh or frigid. The snow fell lightly in big, fluffy flakes- the kind that stick to your eyelashes and decorate your hair with a frosty crown. As my eyes lifted to watch the snowflakes dance on the light breeze, I saw a majestic crow perched on a signpost just ahead. Now, I usually don't use the word "majestic" to describe crows (I generally feel that "creepy" or "mysterious" describe them better), but this one was definitely majestic. Its feathers were a glossy black and ruffled slightly in the breeze that brushed over them. It made no sound, only stared down at me with inscrutable black eyes.
And immediately, a story came to life in my mind. There was no longer just the crow. There was the illusive and beautiful sorceress staring at me through its eyes. There were spirits of wind and snow dancing around me on the snowflakes, reaching out to me with their magic. There was excitement and intrigue and centuries-old conspiracy all converging on me, the unlikely but brave heroine trekking through the wintery wilderness! And then I passed by the stoic crow and continued on to breakfast.
Sometimes I think that maybe it's time to put an end to such intense products of an overactive imagination. That at almost 19 years old it's time to stop playing make-believe. But then again, why should I? The incredibly vast amount of fictional books published is evidence that stories are an integral part of being human. We, as humans, love to open ourselves up to the new experiences and people we find in the midst of stories. So why would I ever deny myself the thrill of discovering a new story in the recesses of my mind? Why ignore the craving I have for adventure, for something more than what's found on the surface of the world? Stories are how we make sense of the world around us. Life itself is a story that we are created for and placed purposefully in. So as strange as it may seem, I won't let go of my stories because I won't let the magic slip through my fingers and disappear.