Inside my head is a constant drilling, a drive for stories, rushed poetry written in pencil and a new life found at the bottom of a smiley-face engraved mug. I always hold my coffee cups with two hands and Autumn is my favourite season. Can you pick a favourite month? Mine is late September, or maybe early October. Creativity is the constant click-clack of another world or life, inky fingers and slightly chewed on pencils. I am a professional daydreamer, and my heaven has bookshelves, not clouds.
Today I could be reading about a wizard; a school of wizards, because Harry Potter could make a fantastic goldfish you know. Tomorrow it could be a rich, 1920s jazz party. I travel without leaving the house, although a thank you from anxiety is missing. Forever in my own bubble, that I have since begun to share in this blog. Imagination makes dreams comes true. I think without this, I would be nothing at all, only an empty shell of a human, lonely and longing.
Have a bad day? Write about it. Having a good day? Use your positive energy to write. Watch the news? Write a dystopian story. Writing is the answer to all of life’s callings. Every dream becomes a reality. I am terrified of spiders and regularly dream of my teeth falling out, usually ending with my tip toeing down to the cats for midnight cuddle. I live in my imagination, spend long enough here and you can make dreams real, even those bad ones that have you hiding behind pillows from the shadows that definitely look like a face.
The world is lying across the middle of a desolate road to Hell, but pens and paper belong in heaven. Imagination is as wild as the world I live in, but I know which I prefer. How do I cope with its madness? Embrace the madness, mould it. Imagination is coping.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed” – Ernest Hemingway