Head to nerve to arm to wrist to hand to fingers to pen to pristine paper.

In between that long journey is an idea, a striking thought that had the author doubling over for a moment. A thought so strong it drove a barren head to paint an image which could only be conveyed through words.

That is where my stories begin. It is always an image, always a flashing picture or a certain scene. But it's blurred. It's like a camera focusing on a subject for the first time, and slowly - as you start to delve deeper into the imagery - everything clears up and you see the tiny details...

The trees, or the number of leaves left on a solemn branch that stands out. The feel of the wind as it blows past a solitary figure slumped on a park bench. A sky caught between blue and orange, or the few flickering stars that mark the beginning of yet another evening...

It stews in the mind's eye until finally you know who the person was, what he was doing there, why the park, why at the evening... all the reasons, the descriptions - and even sometimes the dialogue (however it might exist) - flash in your head.

Voila! 

Piece by piece, the story is complete, and it only usually takes a matter of seconds, or minutes... sometimes even hours. It is poignant, it is perfect, it - you just know - can move even the stoniest hearts.

Too bad that along the journey the ideas slowly settle, fal endlesslyl down, unable to maintain their momentum... and  never really reach the pen.

"Oh, Gravity, thou art a heartless bitch."