Whenever I am to write a personal narrative, a dark storm brews over the island of my thoughts, growing bigger and thicker and darker, devouring the light blue sky above.
The calm sea of thoughts is plagued with the black, cloudy and rough waters of boring. Waves crash on the island of my thoughts, everything I ever thought of screams in unison “the tsunami of boring will devour us all!”
The ground of imagination shakes with the mighty earthquake of boring, everything I ever imagined crumbles apart, terminated by the mighty earthquake of boring.
The once verdant forest of thought is set ablaze by the inferno of boring, trees of thought are set ablaze releasing seeds of ideas in the hopes that the forest will someday prosper again.
In the plains of ideas the rain of boring falls from the sky penetrating the layers and layers of thought and tainting the sands of thought with layers of boring mud.
The ill sea of thoughts trembles before the tsunami of boring, all the thoughts scamper to higher grounds in the hope to live, the tsunami of boring draws nearer devouring everything in its path, burying the island of my thoughts in murky blackness.
The fabric of space tears apart creating the vortex of boring, slowly it descends from the sky sucking up the island of my thoughts…
But then the sun of creativity bursts through the black skies with a newfound strength sending the vortex of boring to its grave.
The raging sea of thoughts is restored to its calm and peaceful state.
The city of imagination takes its final stand and is restored to its beautiful and creative state.
The forest of thought is restored to its verdant and luscious state, the trees of thought scrape the skyline, and all is well again in the forest of thought.
The sun of creativity shines down on the plains of ideas, replenishing and restoring the beautiful plains of ideas.
The storm has passed; all is well again on the island of my thoughts.
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