The world inside my head, if you can call it that . . . no, more like worlds inside my head, or pieces of one world, and pieces of another.
Fragments, ideas, none complete. I see pieces. They intrigue me. I reach out, try to place them on my screen, and then they crumble. The words on screen are nothing like what I see in my head.
Sometimes they are like sputtering torches, or a scattering of sputtering torches, never really coming to a full flame, and never joining together into a cohesive while, and yet never going out. . . Never dying but never fully living.
They want to come out. I want to bring them out. Sometimes I think it would be fun to explore that story, that world, like a character of my story, amazed, in wonder at what I discover, not knowing what will come next.
In one world, I see an android facing a serious moral dilemma. In another, I see a revolutionary vacation resort gone seriously wrong. In another, I see a man on a river bank when the Grim Reaper lands his boat and asks for directions. In one world I see a man who becomes lost on a forest trail and finds himself in a strange realm. In yet another world, I see an author who dialogues with the character he struggles to write and then gives him the most fitting role. They are all there, inside.
Now I need to go, and so the real world calls. But the worlds, or fragments of worlds, call too. I want to let them out. When I rest from the real world, I want to bring out that other world. It is still there. I cannot ignore it because it does not leave me. What can I do to bring it out?
What keeps them trapped? If they can never come out, then why do they continue to call me?
On the other hand, if they keep calling, then they need to come out. What can I do? Keep trying. Study how it is done. Seek guidance from people who have been here before. I know I am happier and more alive when I write. Maybe that is telling me something.