On a day like any other
When leaves danced in the sky, my friend asked me: Just what goes on in your mind?
"What?" I asked, perplexed.
Because it was a rather puzzling question. "What goes on in my mind? Why ever would you ask? My mind works just like yours, as I'm sure you've already guessed."
"Not what I meant." My friend says with a grin,
Then points out the window, to the scenery we see from within. "Writers, artists and people of that kind, must see the same scenes as me but have a completely different picture in their minds."
"Well if you must know." I say, all sagely and wise.
"My mind works a lot better then yours, as I'm sure you realized." "That was uncalled for." My friend says with a pout. "Now please tell me, what is it really all about?"
"Then picture this." I answer, prepared to truly try.
"A writers mind is like a babbling brook that flows till the end of time, forever and ever, an endless process. It can be wonderful or annoying, it really just depends."
"Now imagine this." I continue, trying to fully describe.
"Its like a giant wasteland, where my thoughts and words are no longer mine. When all ideas elude me and I can't even make a rhyme."
"Wait, wait, wait." My friend says annoyed.
"Babbling brook? Giant wasteland? Your just pulling my leg aren't you?" "Not at all." I say in a way that may or may not have been sarcastic. "Your laughing at me aren't you?" "Not at all."
"Well." I say, ready to end the conversation.
"Since I've only ever had my mind, and I am not inclined to get into anyone's head, I don't know if they way I perceive things is so very different from how you do." "Well thanks I guess."