I have nothing to think.

This is not the same as nothing to say.

My brain is tired, but my mouth is not, it just rambles along, making sounds, reacting to the things my ears hear.  There really isn’t any need for the impulse from the ear to pass through the brain on the way to the mouth.  It takes a shortcut. I become a mockingbird, repeating your ideas back to you.  Why not? It makes you happy.

I honestly have no thoughts.  Just feelings.  And feelings without words to describe them are meaningless.  Might as well not exist at all.

I have a mirror next to my desk.  I use it while I am writing to help capture my feelings.  Without it I would not be able to interpret feelings into words.  My face is an open book you tell me.  And yes, I see what you mean.  I stare at the reflection there and I see someone struggling with reality.

I have just read a very good book, one which has shifted something in my brain, the way only a really good book can.  I read a short story on the very same day that I finished the good book, and it increased the shift.  I love this feeling, although it is kind of sad, and very hard to put into words.

Both stories twisted what is ‘real’ into something different.  But neither story took the shape of traditional ‘fantasy’ writing.

They were beautiful like a fairytale without the tacked on moral platitudes.

I want to write that way.  I want to write something so seamless. To move a reader from what is now to what is possible (or not so possible) without discernible effort or deliberate manipulation.

So I float on a bed of nothingness while my brain takes a break, retreating from the mundane, entering the wonderous.

Nothing. No thoughts.

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