Fairies. Unicorns. Wizards. Werewolves. Time-travel. Whole new worlds.
The lure, the mysterious promise of glory and adventure. The beckons of importance. To write new worlds. O what potential bliss! Worlds without number...
It seems like absolute freedom, absolute power. Yet even those uncreated worlds are bound by my bounded mind. Subject to universal laws, built with mere human energy.
But creation, any creation, is no small thing. To grant tangible space and material to something that lay dormant in the intangible depths within the electrical impulses of thought. It's a miracle. To make matter of creative energy, a divine fusion, requires immense power, with magnitude unfathomable. Is such power in the quiet whispers from my soul? No. Then where, where!, where does it come from? And is the creation still mine?
