Images, ideas, colors and stories, they all find room in my mind.
I try to organize the mess, to set piles of the best ones in the open corners, to clear the dust from the old, the good, the unfinished.
I destroy all the empty folders, burn the mistakes and throw away the bad ideas.
Still, when it is time to compose anew, I find the infinite white of the page to much to bear.
I try to go back to the disorganized room, to fetch my last dream, to try and reconstruct the imaginary.
I find myself at a lost... Why is it so difficult to keep a clean house?
The first mark, word, brushstroke finds its way out into reality, and I am successful in my search.
The hard part behind me, I dance into the room and make a newer, better mess.