Ideas swirling, in and out of focus, declaring themselves for but a moment, then shoved roughly aside as the next grows impatient. Mythical beings and impossible situations come to me like a child in the dark. Carefully, hesitant, but longing acknowledgement, they creep slowly towards me.
Thriving as I give each approval and interest; growing, expanding, and becoming real under my watchful gaze. Maturing until tender care is no longer enough. They fight the walls of my mind demanding to be let out! To be heard! To be talked of! To be written!
It soon becomes too much, the voices never ceasing, never sleeping until I can take it no more! I reach for a pen and let the words flow out of me. My hand moves across the page like I am not controlling it. Almost, just almost, the idea, the words, the story is writing itself.
Though sometimes the story needs my help. Where to go? What to do? I don’t know. Do you? I take the story, my story, and give it my words. The idea, the words, the story is suddenly mine. It’s part of my identity, my essence, filling the silence with echoes of joy, the laughter bouncing back to me as I watch my story become more than I ever thought.
My stories never cease, they are always whispering in my ear about things that could happen, making me laugh with child-like wonder. Did I really create this? Did I nurture this, show it how to grow? I watched my story morph from a wisp of thought to a concrete substance, but does this really belong to me? How did this product of my mind get to this point?
Watching my stories mature has led me to believe in imagination. To believe in ideas. I believe in writing and stories so outrageous they can’t be true, but beg to be believed in despite the impossibility of the situation. I believe in creating new worlds so real you care what happens in them. This I believe in and no one will convince me otherwise.