He dances amidst the chaos, his light, joyful steps bring clarity to the mass of jumbled thoughts. His straight black hair flows with his movements, becoming more tangled as he dances, becoming more tangled as he brings order to the ideas floating around. Ebony eyes dart around, seeking out an appealing concept to dance around and bring to life.
Sometimes he stops dancing, and he retreats to a corner, drawing his knees to his chest. Carefully, he combs his fingers through his hair, loosening each strand from its neighbours. For the most part, he remains silent, but occasionally he cries out in frustration, tears trailing down his cheeks, and a thought encases itself around him. As he cries, the thought grows and grows and grows, till it matures, and he stops crying.
Other times he stands and walks around, his bare feet careful not to land on shards of discarded, broken ideas. He brushes his torn grey shirt free of the baby ideas that are no bigger than a spec of dust, that are too small for him to even consider cultivating. His torn shirt shows his midrift, and occasionally a determined concept takes advantage of his ticklish nature and lightly brushes against him, hoping to gain his attention. Every now and then an idea will tug on his loose blue jeans, and he will stare at it, determine its worth, and either get to work or pull himself free.
Alone in this world of imagination, he lives. Yet he does not live, for he does not truly exist. He is simply another thought that has take charge, that has become the thought that determines which over ones become tangible. He has the power to give other thoughts that little shred of existance that makes them almost real, except that they will never have a physical form, and they never will truly be able to think on their own.
He exists as part of the mind he lives in, and in the minds of others that believe he might be real. His perfectly straight black hair can never be combed, his dark as night eyes can never really see, and his slim, underfed figure can never be held, for he is my muse, and he is not real.
But then, what is real anyway?