There is a well in my mind. It’s not only been there my whole life, but always–since the beginning of time probably, a product of the Big Bang.
The well is ancient and timeless.
I think it’s made of stone held together by mortar. It’s cracked and leaky, covered in ivy. The wheel is rusty and squeaky but lubricated with use. Sharp splinters poke out from the crooked arm that holds the wheel. The rope attached to the bucket is thin from wear but strong.
Bad days are when the bucket has to travel way, way, way deep to find water, scraping the bottom before it comes up nearly dry. Good days are when the water nearly overflows the stone and mortar sides, bursting to be released. Most days, though, the water level sits in a comfortable middle; the bucket has to go down in search for it, but not so far as to make my arms too tired.
The well is where ideas come from.
Some ideas are a tiny trickle dripping from the bucket. Others a deluge as the bottom of the bucket falls out, gushing water over my head.
I’m not the only one with access to the well. An intricate labyrinth of tunnels connects other writers, artist, dreamers, and musicians to the well. But it’s not only for artsy types. Mathematicians calculate numbers and equations there; astrophysicists explore the stars and galaxies; doctors find cures for disease.
The well connects us all.
I mistakenly think I write to make connections, take the thoughts and stories in my head and share them with readers, giving them thoughts and stories of their own. I actually write to explore the connections that already exist through the well.
So I suppose I’ll see you at the well. Some time or another.