There's a sofa in my head and the lamps don't match.

I'm sitting here, in front of my beautiful silver mac, listening to one of my favourite classical compilations- Cinema Serenade. It's hellishly windy outside which doesn't help my phobia of wind. I have had a really crappy day and have tried most things (except for drugs and alcohol) to make myself feel better. My home cooked (or should I say self- cooked) meal was great, but not good enough to drive away the bad day. Watching some average 'american shmultz' (as my dad would put it) was ok. Mopping the floor and washing the dishes (which usually cures any ill-feelings or frustration) didn't quite hit the spot. But, I think I have it now- the one thing that gets my feet tapping again and makes the bad day bleed away like ink from a fountain pen that rests on a piece of tissue paper.

Some people swear by escaping into a good book (or a Mills and Boon) when they have had a bad day or are upset. I know my mum does. I can hear her in my head. I'm sitting outside my boarding house at St Annes, flashes of heat lighting up my tear stained cheeks and a headache beginning to cloud my mind after two hours of a grueling exam that didn't go well at all. The first thing I always did was phone my mum to let her know how it went. During this phone call, where I re-lived the bad questions, the good ones and the grey area in between all of the questions where all the doubt lies, she would always offer up the same perfect advice: "Go and make yourself some hot chocolate and climb onto your bed and read your book". I suppose that I have now come to realise the comfort that comes with escaping into my own writing and not just the writing of others.

I really love to write. I crunch my toes up and swivel my head on my shoulders. I take a deep breath and feel the safe, worn-in feeling of my fingers tapping away on the keyboard. I love how surprising it always is for me to see my thoughts appear out of nowhere and turn themselves into real, live words. I love how they just appear in front of me, connecting what is going on in the cosy, velvet clad room inside my head to what is happening in the real world. I love how I can go for minutes on end without bringing myself out of that place.

My thoughts live inside this room. It's nothing spectacular to look at. It's nothing if it isn't comfortable. There are big sofas with well-worn cushions clad in deep jewel toned fabrics. It's not fancy or proper but it is opulent. In this room thoughts fly around at a rapid pace, but they also stand still and talk with one another. They mingle and share ideas and get to know each other. The room inside my mind has mis-matched lamps and several throw cushions that have been collected over the years. It smells like coffee and lemons all at once. The music in my room isn't only of one genre- the i-pod is constantly on 'shuffle'. Most importantly, my thoughts dance around this opulent room. They dance all the time. Even when they are heavy, black, sad thoughts, they still dance to a slow, sad song.

My ideas and thoughts wriggle through me and seep through my finger tips- like a baby's giggle. They touch the keys they want to touch on my keyboard and say the things they want to say. There is no sensor or guardian of my thoughts. That might be something that would be worth having sometime, because, all thoughts are equal in the mis-matched room. There is no hierarchy or royal family. Each one is equal and each one is to their own. This fact, alone, is what gets me into trouble a lot of the time. The guy operating the cannon could possibly do with a little more training, or maybe even a spanner to tighten things up slightly.

Along one of the large walls in the room in my head runs a big white sheet. And, onto this sheet, images and scenes and memories are projected. It's constant and never-ending. It's perpetual. These images slide across the screen and inspire my thoughts. That's why, should you ever ask me, I will say that I only ever think in pictures. When I take the time to think, about anything and nothing in particular, it will always be of a picture showing on that wall in my room. I think in full colour and black and white. I add soundtracks occasionally but mostly think in silence. It's these pictures that allow me to be creative and imagine things so vividly. It's this show, this drive-in, this private screening that makes me who I am.

I love writing because it's free. Not in the monetary sense (although that is handy when you spend hours and hours writing a piece of work) but in the spiritual sense. There are never any boundaries or restrictions. There is no loud noise that goes off when you have written something 'wrong'. No one is sitting behind me, clucking their tongue when I write. I can ramble and babble at a hellish pace and I can sit and tap my fingers over the soft black letters while I watch the private screening in my head.

In my life, I have always found one thing and one thing only that has come easily to me. I have always been a relatively shy person- erring on the introverted side of extroversion. I have had to work on being able to sit down and talk to a stranger in a social situation. I have never been good at maths or science and although I have a hunger for biology, I have never been able to produce the illusive 'A'. I was good at sports but lacked the fire that I so often saw in my peers. I am passionate about horses and the bond that I have with the horses I have trained and ridden but sometimes time and money doesn't always allow the freedom for that. I am average looking, of average height and average weight (although I am on the road to experiencing what skinny might feel like). I love to sing but would never sing for anyone other than my family. All of this pales into insignificance when I think about my love for writing. I have never struggled to find words to describe a situation. I don't really know or understand what it might be like to not know how to write something down. I loved History at school because of the chance that I got to retell certain stories through my writing and, of course, I felt most at home in my English classroom. Writing is something that I have just always done. I have never had to work hard at it or take extra lessons. It's just here- in my finger tips and in my blood. (God! Could I be blowing any MORE smoke up my own ass?)

I am particular about writing though. Spelling mistakes, for one, are something completely intolerable for me. I curse myself, outwardly, when I make a mistake and fail to correct it. People who are poor spellers are lesser beings as far as I am concerned. The same goes for poor grammar and punctuation. If you really want to piss me off then write to me and ask "Where are you going too?" If you want to see me get physically abusive then write me an email or a text like this: "wot r YoU doIn tonYt? wen CaN i cum ovA te FeTch mi tiNgs?"- Lord help you because I do not punch like a girl.

There is the one thing that I wrap myself in when I write: These words are my very own. I can express anything I want to express with a clever choice of words. I can make you feel something tangible by using the specific rythm of a sentence. I can make you see the things that I see in my mis-matched room. I can tell a story- any story. I can help you to understand what is going on in my world. (A lot of the time, however, it's better not to know or understand what is going on in my world. Have you ever heard the saying "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas"? That term was first coined by the people who had the first glimpse into my mind. It was subsequently sold to Hollywood where it has made a lot of money and lives in a huge apartment on the Upper East Side of New York city).

Words are like therapy to me. I think that that may be why I love to play the piano so much- music is just another way of experiencing someone else's writing. Forget talking on the phone for hours. Forget eating a tub of ice-cream. Forget watching a soppy movie. All I need is words and my ability and love for writing. All I need is my ruby-red, velvety, worn-in room that smells like coffee and lemons. All I need is the giggle of thoughts escaping into the real world for me to feel at peace. And look- I have spent two hours completely and blissfully unaware of the real world and my problems. And, with that, I will return to my room in my head. I'm going to put my feet up and watch tonight's screening (Mad Men) and get lost in my own reverie. I can feel the light and warmth that resinates from that place for me already.

With the ease, grace and familiarity of a signature at the end of a letter and the inevitability of a chicken fillet slipping through your fingers, I tiptoe back into my own little world where the tapping of a keyboard makes sweet music all on it's own- and no body hears it but me.