From time to time, I wonder if there is a secret world hidden from me.
(Doesn't those scars look like eyes?)
Are there disguised creatures watching me as I walk by, whispering about me, making strange noises, creating things to appear in front of me, or even stealing my stuff? There are some days that I feel I can almost touch this world just behind a bush or below the surface of the water.
In some ways, this is true. There is a secret world that I know about. It's the one I go home to every day and write about. A whole world that is confidential, classified, hush-hush until it gets published. Then the whole world will get to see my special world in the pages of a book. A part of me is saddened at the idea. It will no longer be my own secret place that opens itself only to me. The other part is exhilarated because I will get to share it and not be alone anymore.
Occasionally, my world bleeds into this one. I see glimpses of it here and there, whispering in the shadows. Sometimes in the most unexpected ways.
Maybe that is the writer's super power - to see what is invisible; to hear what is silenced; to sense what is only imagined.