David, of Ripples asks if I can find my place to write; my house of paper on a hill, a cabin in the woods where inspiration is the air I breathe, and words grow from the ground.
Yes, oh yes, I can. It is the very first word appearing in my mind, the very first picture I see. It is fragile, like a bubble, alive with swirling colors yet a shelter where no one else can find me. I let them enter, but they don’t remember being there at all. Memories and fantasies are mixed so well together that I feel and taste the salty ocean on naked bodies, and feel the cool wetness as we saunter boldly down the quiet street past darkened, sleeping houses at the shore. But that was youth, and there was laughter, and the four of us were never caught except in the mind, forever.
I live within the house, the house lives within me.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology