If your mind was a room, it would feel like stepping into a place where curiosity and possibility are constantly in conversation. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves (how can I say no to this?), a large corkboard crowded with plans and random sparks of inspiration that seemed too interesting to forget, a comfortable reading chair (I imagine brown leather) beside a steaming cup of coffee and a stack of books waiting their turn and fresh flowers on the table (because if there is no flower, it’s not meant for Ain Soofiyah)
The room would be slightly cluttered, full of unfinished chapters and evolving plans (because I'm indecisive like that) Not chaotic, but overflowing with interests, questions, dreams, and stories. It would feel less like a room and more like a space where a life is continuously being built.

“It is an extremely common mistake. People think the writer’s imagination is always at work, that he’s constantly inventing an endless supply of incidents and episodes; that he simply dreams up his stories out of thin air.”
“To be frank, I think his world had vanished long before he ever entered it. But I will say: he certainly sustained the illusion with a marvelous grace.”

“Opportunity waits for no man.”
You don’t feel lost because your life is meaningless.You feel lost because you don’t have a quest.





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