If someone were to ask you what your oldest memory was, you would probably reply making up stories and acting them out. For as long as you could remember, imagining stories was your past time. You remember walking down the street with your mom when you were young picturing the scenery as if you were underwater. You were one of the fish the roamed around the sea. You remembered riding on a giant butterfly since it was the people’s way to transport them everywhere—at least in your head it was.

It was at the beginning of junior high when you finally got into writing. After reading all these novels, you decided, yourself, that you will write stories whenever possible. And then when high school hit, you were unstoppable. Classmates praised your writing and looked to you for advice. Teachers were always open to criticize you but could barely find any. What could you say? You loved to write and it’s been who you are ever since you could remember.

You were in your last year in college and you set yourself a long-term goal: write novella before graduation. It seemed easy at first, but for the first time in your life, writer’s block came knocking in. You were in the middle of the story when you realized that it was not going anywhere. So you decided to go to the tree. It was that one source you have for inspiration, almost like a place to refuel your head.

The tree was on top of a hill in the public park, clearly visible from below but no one knew the way to the top for there was a forest that blocked the way. No one knew except for you. Not one person had bothered to look for the trail that was destroyed from pass storms. Not one person but you. That tree was a childhood friend—your parents, who are long gone now, always took your there when you were younger and ever since they left the world, it was that one place that meant dearly to you.

You passed by screaming children running around and couples linked together and families on picnics in the park. They all had something in common: happiness, pure happiness. It was truly beautiful. Walking into the forest, your feet led the way to the top of the hill, remember each and every step needed to take to reach the top. After about fifteen minutes of tiring uphill, you settled yourself down underneath the tree, back against the trunk. Sighing, you opened your journal and stared at the blank page