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Description
I can’t write.
Do what you do best.
What do I do?
Well… what can’t you do?
I can’t write from a plan. I can’t sit here and think, oh, I’ll write about that. I can’t draw inspiration from looking around me.
Ok... so… what does that leave?
You. And me.
So write about that.
No. Because that’s stupid. And boring. No one wants to read that.
Then write about something else.
Yes but what?
Don’t try to find something that will impress people. Look inside the brown and textured, inky, saturated domain. This leaf covered floor of the cavern that is your laboratory. What do you feel?
It’s warm, and quiet. But if I walk and can hear the leaves crackling under my bare feet, like whispers.
Do you feel safe?
Yes. It’s untouched, natural. It is my haven. The colours are sincere. There is a tree, about my height, silvery brown, covered in dust and spider webs.
Is it dead?
Yes. But there is something alive about it. Its tapered fingers reach towards me, asking for an embrace. It is soft and unthreatening. There is a faded grey cushion beneath it. I remember now… I sit there.
You can change it you know.
Change what?
This place. It seems so bleak.
But it’s not… It speaks to me, by listening. It simply exists, and it is only by being unassuming and shadowy that I can shape and mould my thoughts here.
Can you shape and mould them now?
I… I think so.
Does the tree have a name?
I think so.
Do you know what it is?
I cannot say. It is an impression of a notion. I look at it and it makes me feel… something. It is dead and yet thoughtful. It is lacking in colour yet its tones are vivid. I want to touch it to feel its velvet surface. A skeleton of a tree. I think every time I write, it grows leaves. And when I finish, they fall onto the ground.
That sounds worrying.
But it’s not. It allows for change. This place is still because I give it life. I stir the leaves and make the air shimmer. Sometimes sunlight filters in from above ground.
It’s underground?
Yes. The earth is a womb. It smells so nice.
… I think…I think I would have imagined a golden kingdom.
Yes, you would have, wouldn’t you?
I…I love you.
There are golden keys buried in the soft walls. They unlock little grey boxes. Inside each box is a wonderful emerald on grey velvet.
Did you hear me?
I sit on the grey cushion, with a key held tight. I think… I think I know what to do now.

Description
I can’t write.
Do what you do best.
What do I do?
Well… what can’t you do?
I can’t write from a plan. I can’t sit here and think, oh, I’ll write about that. I can’t draw inspiration from looking around me.
Ok... so… what does that leave?
You. And me.
So write about that.
No. Because that’s stupid. And boring. No one wants to read that.
Then write about something else.
Yes but what?
Don’t try to find something that will impress people. Look inside the brown and textured, inky, saturated domain. This leaf covered floor of the cavern that is your laboratory. What do you feel?
It’s warm, and quiet. But if I walk and can hear the leaves crackling under my bare feet, like whispers.
Do you feel safe?
Yes. It’s untouched, natural. It is my haven. The colours are sincere. There is a tree, about my height, silvery brown, covered in dust and spider webs.
Is it dead?
Yes. But there is something alive about it. Its tapered fingers reach towards me, asking for an embrace. It is soft and unthreatening. There is a faded grey cushion beneath it. I remember now… I sit there.
You can change it you know.
Change what?
This place. It seems so bleak.
But it’s not… It speaks to me, by listening. It simply exists, and it is only by being unassuming and shadowy that I can shape and mould my thoughts here.
Can you shape and mould them now?
I… I think so.
Does the tree have a name?
I think so.
Do you know what it is?
I cannot say. It is an impression of a notion. I look at it and it makes me feel… something. It is dead and yet thoughtful. It is lacking in colour yet its tones are vivid. I want to touch it to feel its velvet surface. A skeleton of a tree. I think every time I write, it grows leaves. And when I finish, they fall onto the ground.
That sounds worrying.
But it’s not. It allows for change. This place is still because I give it life. I stir the leaves and make the air shimmer. Sometimes sunlight filters in from above ground.
It’s underground?
Yes. The earth is a womb. It smells so nice.
… I think…I think I would have imagined a golden kingdom.
Yes, you would have, wouldn’t you?
I…I love you.
There are golden keys buried in the soft walls. They unlock little grey boxes. Inside each box is a wonderful emerald on grey velvet.
Did you hear me?
I sit on the grey cushion, with a key held tight. I think… I think I know what to do now.