Do you ever imagine that your brain is like a house?
It’s got all these little rooms and hallways and passages. Some rooms are open to each other, allowing a thought to pass easily from one place to another, allowing for new ideas and words to fit the ideas. There are rooms of memories. There are dark closets that hold all the memories we want to forget. There are cabinets stuffed with the clutter of the day—desks piled with thoughts and recollections we haven’t had the time to sort through.
There are restful rooms in our minds—places where we go to be alone with ourselves. There are thoughts or daydreams that we cherish and replay, just like a favorite room in a house where you go to be quiet and unwind.
And then there’s that room—exclusive to the brain, perhaps—where nothing happens. The walls are white. There are no pictures; no furniture. Not even any windows. This room is the room where inspiration is nonexistent. There are no ideas. No words. Nothing.
That is where the mini-me that lives in my brain-house is standing right now. She is staring at the blank walls, wondering how she got there, and is too tired to do anything other than lie down on the floor and fall asleep.