From my seat in this train on a dreary afternoon, I stare out the window to the pregnant sky. My eyes skimming just above the tree line that boarders the tracks. Some people will see literally what is in front of them, I however see beyond it. I could not even be looking at it, or anything. Am I even here?
The mind expands beyond this world and into another. Where anything is possible and fantasy is reality. A place that I can explore the dark recesses of my mind for the nuggets of story goodness.
Just as I get used to this new exciting world, the minds eye thrusts me to another place and time. From an outside perspective it can be hard to piece together the snippets here and there, but in the writers mind they graft together to create the perfect word fruit, ready to bleed their sweet blood all over a page.
Inside the mind of a writer is a strange place.
Yet it is home.
My home.
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