I sat cross-legged on my bed, closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind of all thoughts. At first I thought it had worked but as soon as I thought "Hey, it's working" I kind of broke the silence, didn't I?

Not to be defeated I tried again, but this time I realised my mind had by then began an imaginary conversation with someone dear to my heart in my head. I sighed and tried harder to empty my mind, but the conversation just shifted to carry on with my own self instead.

I opened my eyes and looked out the window: it was sunny and I felt compelled to go out at once. It wasn't before I was out the door that I knew where I wanted to go... and my steps led me to the closest park there is from my home. The walk that led me there sparked a flurry of thoughts dancing in my head, and it was a good 30 minute walk...

I thought about the story I spent over two years writing but that is still unfinished. I wondered which character I was closest to in that story, but actually I always knew that each and every single one of them was really a face of my self - from the purest character to the darkest - because that was always my intention.

I remembered what the old gardener had said to little Kara when she was 10 years old in the story. She was longing for sunshine and he was leaving to return to his 'country' and when she asked him what his country was like, he replied with a soft chuckle: "Where I'm from, spring never seems to leave."

I wondered whose philosophy in the story was closest to mine in reality but of course that's a pointless question because each of them represent a part of the whole that allows for the world I created to be perfect. The weakest part of that world was always going to be the Valley because there was a mixture of all thoughts at once, whereas the other parts of that world followed a more focused direction in thought and action in reality. In the end, the Valley is also the place that becomes the easiest to destroy.

I thought and thought some more but by then I had reached the park and I just went to sit on a sunny bench to watch people play tennis for a while. I thought to myself: "I'd actually like to play tennis," mainly because I felt buzzing with energy, so much energy always but I never know what to do with it.

I carried on with my walk all the way to the small lake and watched the sunshine reflecting on the water like gold. I took some pictures, all the while listening to my I Pod and then this song came on and let's just say it made me rather dreamy.

On the way back I saw painting materials displayed in one shop window and decided to buy some, not caring whether I'd actually do anything with it or not. I realised they didn't have any oil paints, only acrylic, but so what, I thought. I never tried acrylic paint, and that was enough to convince me to buy some. And some brushes as well.

It also reminded me of my last summer in Paris. I'd just turned 17 and was spending my time copying paintings from Monet. As we were struggling to make ends meet I went to my mother and told her about a great idea I'd just had. I'd apply myself so well to the craft that I'd make perfect copies I would then sell to people and maybe I could even become a really good con-artist and make a living out of it. She laughed at the idea. And then we moved but the idea stayed behind, I guess.

I have this strange fantasy where I write all the things I have in my head and then I burn everything to a dead pulp. I watch it all burn before my eyes and when there is only ashes left I ask myself whether any of it was ever real. A variant of that fantasy involves me writing everything I have in mind and then bury it deep in the ground to leave it to chance.

I have to say that's the sort of thoughts I find sublime.