And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
– William Shakespeare
They say that writers are trapped, locked up in their own worlds. They say that artists are flying high in a different dimension, submerged in the incense of smoking opium and barbiturates. Is that really so I dare not claim.
However, I shall not deny that there is much truth in it. There is a characteristic of beauty in a mind left alone to wander about and linger on through the passages of conciousness.
One that is highly valued in a moment of solitude. No, we are not smokers of weed and nicotine, puffing wisps of fantasies into the crisp air. These are really periods of self-expression; of discovering oneself in…
View original post 156 more words