When I listen to this composition, I lose myself in the moment. I usually have this playing in the background when I am writing. It helps me imagine.
I may be sitting in my living room on the sofa but in my mind I am in some sort of a fantasy tale. Mostly this melody transports me to the outdoors, where I lie under the shade of a tree in a large tract of forest, birds twittering, my heart leaping with joy at the sight of sun rays beaming through the leaves of the tall trees, sunshine keeping my bones warm and my skin radiant. All the wood creatures are my friends and we have several adventures together, and I write tales of our adventures and of magic and of fantasy, and children and adults in all corners of the world read these stories, and like me, they are transported to a different world even if only for a brief period of time.
I am a dreamer. My dreams are so vast that my heart often gasps in pain trying to contain all the thrill and zest that dreams bring along with them.
And I am also a wee bit scared. There, I said it. Not a wee bit, but actually quite scared. The sensation is overwhelming. When I write, I feel as if I am consumed by some sort of paradisiacal bliss.
That is the only real world for me, the only one that has any meaning. The world conjured up by words. Where everything is only as real as you believe them to be.
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