It often happens to me that my mind is full and I am mentally busy. I feel that I am like a honey bee and I am ready to sit anywhere very quietly and see where my ideas want me to go. I am not sure how one idea gets connected with others and take my mind to ponder and I feel my creative impulse is ready to work

Actually this world is big playground for my mind. Somewhere there I get an impulse from any image over which my imagination works. Arranging one image to another, imagination over imagination, I start to work. I always consider that there is a relation between image and imagination. Imagination gives wings to image and in a solitary silence conceive a new world which I pen down.

In other words, realities of others and experiences of mine inspire me to write. Writing sometimes seems like bleeding, as if I am wounded and my blood is sweeping from my heart and I am writing in a flow. It is really painful process to find the words that can carry the weight of your pain and let you feel unloaded. Words mean medicine. Words mean healing and transforming the pain into a magic.

I really fail to keep the sense since when I have been writing and suddenly I feel to leave my sitting place in want of some fresh air as if after too much bleeding my body is missing lifesaving air.

Walking alone in this world, I beg to ask myself: Am I really walking with my head on my shoulders? Sometimes I think: No, I am only walking with my imagination. My body is moving and mind continues to think on and on subjects which were bleeding me, which took away all the necessary oxygen of my life. This walking may not have refreshed me but allows me to write further.

Again I am back on my seat to write some more and more and sometimes I write the whole day and lose my sleep. The next day I feel like a ghost. A demon is really punishing me – neither killing me nor leaving me.

I think this is what happens with every writer and each writer finds himself or herself being a ghost and waiting to be normal again and then get busy in just typing fast all those fast running thoughts.

A writer has so much to write from the unknown sources. He is always busy, something is connecting him towards an unknown world. Where he has to write genuine dialogue as naturally as if two persons talk. He has to describe a place one has probably never visited or seen before.

A writer is living and dying with his own characters. In his mind nothing really looks normal. In fact, he needs nothing to be normal. His eyes are watching and fingers are typing and only a self-created world is exiting between those two.

Living a life of an artist is not simple. Life is demanding rest, peace, fun, adventure, enjoyment, family and friends. To neglect them all one has to be spell bound in the world of his own created characters. Of course this doesn’t guarantee any appreciation, let alone money and respect.

Time is running, body is demanding urgent attention and eyes are still busy in seeing those unknown characters that are living deep down in the soul.