Lights bursting, sounds blaring, creatures form from nothing.
A world is created, a story is made, and things begin to make a little more sense.
What doesn't make sense is this, why am I here in my made up world?
Not in reality, but in a fictionality of words and images barely processed.
Am I done with the world, or is it done with me?
Imagination in full throttle, I can't stop it now.
Images form and disappear; words are said and fade into echoes.
Raising action, climax, solution, conclusion, it's over.
Sudden urge to express myself but can't.
Who listens anyway?
Yet, I choose to remember it, and perfect it.
Maybe one day I will succumb to my urge, and let my inner thoughts out.