From The Tears Of Stars
You asked me where I get my ideas. They come to me on the wings of a gilded sparrow, floating through the ether. From the tears of stars, they fall through the night sky, landing on my pillow. I gently scoop them up and put them all in this vase for safe keeping.
They drop like rain from a lemon yellow sky and are so easily missed. I could never catch them all, keep them all. Some are so fleeting that they’re gone before I even know I’ve had them. They play at the edge of my conscious mind, like dancing children, I can hear their laughter but when I look they’re gone.
Some sit in my head for weeks, or months, or years, refusing to leave, demanding to be used. These are the stories that simply must be told, they insist, they poke, they prod, they will not be ignored. They have no respect for the things that must be done.
Others wait, patiently, half formed, for some spark, for some new idea to come. Upon its arrival they are brought to life and come bubbling out of my store of ideas, racing, flowing, freely gambolling across the fields of my imaginings.
You asked me where I get my ideas, but you wouldn’t understand the truth, so I told you I get them from a little shop in the high street.