Rain gently pattered down on a tin roof, whispering at me and giggling with great plops and patters. The thunder was not so amicable. Bellowing in a disgruntled sort of way, it rambled on through the sky, pausing only to let the careful assurances of the rain surround me.
That day happened to be an unusually sunny day, without even a trace of cloud in the sky. I was sitting in a lecture, listening to the deluge-like pitter pattering of the typing students around me become rain. The voice of the bearded professor, as you may guess, was the thunder.
Why was I able to transform an otherwise dull hour into a peaceful stay in a wood-bound cottage by a stream? This is hardly an unusual ability - every human is able to take a book, or a bird, or a branch, and craft ancient scrolls, pterodactyls, swords.
But why? If you are an evolutionist, what procreationary benefit does this have? If you are a creationist, what purpose does imagination serve in glorifying God? These are not rhetorical questions, I would like an answer.
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