I am sitting out in the garden and I'm not sure what makes it magical. Whether it's the moon, the stars or the soft light coming from the tiny tea lights I've lit and put on the table next to me. All I know, is that it is magical.

The cool evening air that caresses my skin, the silence as everyone has retreated into their homes. I lean my chair back and stare into the night.

It's not quite dark - the moon is bright - but I have to squint to read my own writing in the shadow my hand casts, blocking the light from the candles.

I hear soft muttering, coming from somewhere inside the house and I know my brother is still awake too.

But here in the garden, I am alone and it is a blissfull moment. One that lets me dream away and fantasise about a different life, one beside my ordinary self.

I remember the wonderful things I've seen in lives I've never lived:
white topped mountains, giant lakes that are blue, blue, blue and endless, endless fields of green, rising up and then flowing down into hills that are waves in a sea of flowers that dot the green with white and yellow and red and a spot of blue or purple here and there.

I hear songs I've never written and relax into their sound, wondering what story is hidden within the melody. There are strings and trumpets and a grand piano that plays softly while a complete orchestra sets up to form black squiggles on paper into a sound that captures me, overwhelms me and makes me lost in the music.

But with all this, my mind is a creator of things that'll never be, because my hands do not know what it is telling them to do. My body cannot fathom how it is supposed to shape these thoughts into reality.

So each time I try to hold on to the picture, to the sound, the smell, the life that fills my mind's eye, I fail to do so and it slips through my fingers, but it holds on to the tips, just a breath away from falling.

Desperately clinging on to the hope of something, of creation, of whatever it is that my mind has cooked up, I drop these thoughts onto paper and as I grab my pen to trace their outline, they slowly disappear.

I write and write and trace the shapes I've traced before with my words and when I am done I look it over and I see they have formed a picture that so clearly is a reflection of me.

A piece of me that I cannot be, a piece of me that I want so badly that it has come from deep inside and bubbled up to the surface.

And while I look, I realise: there's a voice that I posess. A voice I don't use when I am speaking, but one that flows through my pens when finally, finally, my mind knows how to tell my hands to create

and they listen.