It’s a place where the weight of writers block and the firm hand of ones muse bear equal weight. A place born equally out of depression, uncertainty and elation. A place that bears no resemblance to the minutia of reality, where the writer is completely infolded in a world full of peril, made doubly dangerous because their body is still here, firmly stuck in reality and reality has a tendency to burn you when you’re not paying attention.

I’m in that place right now. Not at all sure when I’m coming out or even if I ever want to come out again. It’s nice here. I understand the way that this world works perfectly and I’m never lonely, this place is full of interesting characters. But if I stay too long there’s a danger I’d starve, at the very least, fading away bit by bit till one day there’s nothing left of me but a few unfinished manuscripts and a bag of dried bones clinging to the keys of my computer.

Anchoring in reality for even a moment, is counter productive. Every moment spent not immersed in this world makes reentry that much harder. It’s easy to stay and easy to leave but re-entry is always a near impossible effort. It always feels like it won’t happen this time. Like the doorway has closed and all the paths in are lost. Until you struggle over that final hill and there it is, stretching out before you in all it’s glory.

So that’s where I am right now. It’s a good place or at least, a place that I enjoy, it’s also a place that makes it harder to do everything else. Eating, sleeping, updating my social media. It’s imaginative crack. I’d gladly stop doing everything else and just live here if I could. If I’m very lucky someday I’ll die here.

But not today, dear readers. Not today.