While I clean around in my house and dust behind some shelves and under my bed, I notice a familiar book. Perhaps it must've fallen from the shelf above my bed and got lost underneath.
I brush the dust off the book and check it on the inside. It seems to be my journal.
After taking it to my desk, I take a pen and write. But I don't write. I hesitate. I didder and I hover over the paper. My mind wonders where the inspiration and fantasy I had gone to.
I felt tired. I decided not to write. Instead I go for a walk. I head to the only place I know with a sakura tree. Aside of that tree, there is a little house. It's far from the public eye, perhaps I might be the only one that knows of it. Which is why I call it the Secret Garden. I visit here whenever I want to find relaxation and inspiration yet again.
And now I need it.
