Not too long ago I posted a poem on my Instagram and almost immediately, I received a text message from my husband, already in bed but scrolling upstairs. “Who the hell are you writing about?” he wrote. Laughing, I scurried upstairs and jumped on top of his frame. “Knock it off,” I said, tickling him. “You know that I have thirty personalities in my head, begging me to share their stories.”

Pinning me down, he kissed me before shrugging his insecurity off. “You’re weird,” he concluded.

Perhaps I am a little off-kilter, but I have always been this way, a sponge to untold narratives and suppressed sentiments. Inspiration strikes me in the strangest of ways. Once I was driving to work and glanced to my right, noticed a large, bushy vine scaling the highway soundwall as though it, too, was trying to escape the traffic. I mused over natural versus mechanical elements fighting over their freedoms for the rest of my journey up I495.

When I read books, the characters become so vivid and so alive in my heart that when its movie comes out, years later, I am unsettled by such two-dimensional, lackluster personalities. Does this happen to anyone else?

I escape into nature so that I can hear the tales told by trees. I fall in love-hopelessly, intensely, with strangers. I people watch in coffee shops and imagine the lives they lead, the humble abodes they return to after finishing their morning cup of Joe. I read lines of someone else’s work, hear profound lyrics, and a new poem of my own materializes. My mind and my heart are true artists outside of my own shell’s capabilities- When they collaborate, I can set no guidelines.

So no, not all of my inspirations stem from the life I lead. The walls of my home don’t always pulse with amplified passion, angst, vibrancy. Such emotions, rather, pulse through my veins based on the stimulus I am exposed to. When I see tears, I feel my own eyes dampen. When I witness laughter, I become elated. When I am alone, even if only for a moment, I feel as empty as a exiled wanderer who has traveled in solitude for many years. At weddings, I tend to grow envious of the love shared between the newlyweds, so open, so raw. I often think of the could’ve beens- Not because my life is lacking in any way, but… my mind just goes there, plays out scenarios and different plotlines. My true existence is just one path that I wander down, and while its undoubtedly a beautiful and enchanted forest… I am simply a dreamer that likes to play in all parts of the woods.

-Adding Punctuation