I have this rich imaginary life. I'm always thinking of stories, here in my head. Minor ones, major ones. Some with people I know. More often than not and because I am of the bourgeoise, mostly with celebreties of some sort. I have had the same story running in my head since I was 15. The people change, the locales, but the theme remains the same. (no, I'm not telling you, it's mine)

I think of dramatic situations while I'm driving long distances. While stuck in line at the post office. While trying to fall asleep. While bathing. Always turning, my imagination. It never lets me down.

Being a writer means going to bed at midnight and then still being awake an hour and a half later because your mind won't shut up and the characters you're writing keep walking into your head and they say- let my voice be heard! let me do this! and you drag your ass out of bed and you turn on the computer at 2am and you write and write and write until you look up and time has gone by in the blink of an eye and you finally feel finished. And then you're finished for the moment, your mind exhausted finally and you collapse back into bed where you dream, again, your characters dancing and laughing and planning new things to bug you about...

This is what being a writer means to me. And this time I've given myself? This time where it doesn't matter if I sleep until noon (Or wake up 4 hours later if I want, all groggy and sleep crusted) and dream? It's the best gift I could ever give myself. I realized this, sometime this morning as the first ray of dawn peeked through my window.

I was fretting because I have had all this time off and didn't go anywhere.. I didn't do anything... and then I realized I've been more places in my head then most people ever get to visit in their lives and it was okay.

And it was good.

And it made me happy.