My Head
Filled with pretty mahogany furniture, art supplies of all kinds, and stacks upon stacks of books, my mind is my coziest place and my prison cell. Notebooks of stories, long and short, finished and unfinished, line the room. Deep red walls glow in the afternoon light coming from the single half-open window adjacent from the unmade bed. A camera hangs from a peg by the door and a million photographs hanging from strings attached to the ceiling swinging gently in the soft breeze. Paintings and drawings hang haphazardly on the walls and the aged white door. This is where I can bring anything to life, where I can be free to write, read, draw and snap photos to my heart's content. This is my place to create.
Take a look at the pages in these notebooks, or maybe look closer at the photographs and drawings and paintings; not all is as it seems. The deep red walls cast a beautiful light that covers everything in the room with a dusting of gold and warms the room. In this perfect lighting is where I sit. Show me something, tell me something, and a hundred ideas blossom in random images flowing in from the window and out of the half-open door. Only the ones that stay and bounce off of the walls for a while are born onto paper. I am proud of most of the things I have given life to. The photographs in my mind are plenty and still accumulating; they help in bringing forth settings for stories and even the stories themselves. Most are things in nature like rocks, flowers, the sky, and trees. There are also memories; important people within these important times in my life smiling back at me when I need them most. Drawings, however, are few and far apart these days, coming only when time and inspiration mingle effortlessly. And while the photographs allow me to capture what I think is beautiful, the drawings allow me to bring forth what I believe to be beautiful from my mind, from the cracks in these red walls, in a way that is different from writing.
This place can bring fear too, often terrifying me with monsters of my own creation. I hide behind the 'it's not real, it's only in my mind' gag until it disappears only to rear its head again at a later time. Even still, with my imagination and I at constant war with each other, I am still content within this little room. I can find peace in the warm red walls and comfort in the dusty notebooks here as I weave myself through the canopy of photographs to the ideas that wait patiently for me to let them in.
