I have a world in my head; a world I've lived in since I was four years old and would spend hours drawing pictures of figure skaters in sparkly gowns; the world I've lived in since I was six and would sit in kindergarten writing books about dinosaurs that ran away from home, my sentences all garbled and my letters written backwards. This is the world that countless imaginary pets and people have lived in. This is the world in which I can be shamelessly childish. This is the world – my world – of wonder and beauty.

In my world, fauns play pipes to lull me to sleep beneath twining boughs clotted with red and gold leaves beneath skies of azure. In my world, there are gypsies that play pipes to dancing bears and gryphons that guard staircases made of glass. In my world there are forest-dwelling totoros with big comfortable tummies you can sit on, and zabraks that wield double-sided light sabers. In my world, Sherwood is still inhabited by men in lincoln green and the silvery bugle still rings through its bowers. In my world I can walk through looking-glasses and open doors that lead to Narnia. In my world the little mermaid gets her legs, Niggle paints his leaf, Tadge marries the tinker's daughter, and the Baudelaire children always outwit Count Olaf.

My world contains a thousand joys and a thousand sorrows. It is my inspiration and my refuge, and it is my world because it is what I love.

I have a marvelous world, but doesn't everyone? Doesn't everyone dream the impossible dream? Doesn't everyone have his own castle on a cloud, built brick by brick from his own fertile imagination?

For essentially what prods us all to write is our loves. We write because we love something, and only through that is good writing achieved. Perhaps you love the ocean. Perhaps you love how it rocks you back and forth like an infant in its mother's arms. Perhaps you love the way it crashes, fierce and at the same time gentle. Perhaps you like its sparkling hue or its salty spray. Whatever makes you love it, write about it. Whatever inspires you, write about it.

Inspiration; it can be brought about by the slightest nuance. It can come from a strange, intriguing new face at the mall. It can come from the nostalgic smell of a musty basement, the feel of a new pair of shoes, or a certain color on a wallpaper. Dreams may bring inspiration; even nightmares may. Inspiration is drawn from both good feelings and bad; it is drawn from our own unique interpretations of the dizzying and awe-inducing world around us.

If we do not write from the soul, we are not writing. If none of our words or ideas are concocted by whims and fancies from the child that lives still within us, they are worthless. And they would not be written. Is there a story on earth that does not obviously draw from some inner yearning within the author? Is there anyone who, upon writing a story, cannot look at it at see himself reflected in its pages?

Never forget your world, and never forsake your world. It is a beautiful thing, and it is your own. It is a wonderful thing, an awesome thing, and a sacred thing.

A/N: This is my poetic love-letter, so to speak, to all my dear friends on fcpress. XOXO!! Thank you for being an outlet for my muse in a troubling time of my life.