nny | (no subject)

My brain is full of little rooms with the doors halfway closed, and in every little room there's a story muttering away to itself, telling itself secrets that it won't let me hear. Every now and again one's a little too loud and finds itself in a notebook all on its own; every now and again I drag one out to poke at a little, to try to squash it into a shape that fits.

(Sometimes the doors are closed seriously tight, and I sit on my own in the middle of that room and wonder if I'll ever hear from the stories again).

And then, once in a while, a door will be open. Wide open. Open all the way. And the story's been murmuring away steadily enough, just on the edge of hearing, that suddenly everything inside that little room is described absolutely clear as day.

I just wish sometimes they'd open up a little sooner than three years, that's all. :D