When life is too loud, and days endlessly long,
I retreat to the silence in my head.
Except, really, it is never silent.
It is colorful,
brimming with images of dragons and magical worlds.
It is cluttered,
housing notebooks filled with various pieces of information, with small post-it notes pasted all over the walls of each fleeting thought or joke or comment that passes by.
It is jumbled,
with words and phrases and half-finished sentences and mostly-developed story ideas.
It is analytical,
observing everything in that loud—well, louder—outside world, thinking about others, noting idiosyncrasies that can be given to original characters of my own creation.
It is musical,
humming with melodies and chords and arpeggios from songs I love, songs I am learning.
It is beautiful, magical, mystical.
But it is never, truly, silent.