picture this


you are taking a walk down that familiar dirt path. the breeze in your hair, the silent whoosh of the leaves engaged in a vortex of dance, the soft drizzle like water threads woven into ether. splash.

the cool water trickles down your ankle as a bicycles rushes past you. but it’s a fine day. you gaze up at the sky, eyes closed. your eyelids tremble at the tender touch of water droplets.

time stills as every relaxed muscle lets the steady moment expand into dreamy wonderings.

and then you hear the distant sound of the train whistle. pheeoosh. you’re mind has reached the destination.

welcome to ‘the fictional journal.’ a place where you’ll belong, a place you’ll find yourself coming back to again and again, a place of peace. a place to call home.