I am an absent minded daydreamer who occasionally bothers to put her dreams down in writing. My loves in life are my cat (named Mistoffelees), my music, my books, and my dreams. While I am only eighteen, I would like to think I am beyond the petty dreams and actions of that age. But maybe I am not, except in my dream-world, which is where I remain half the time anyways. I stand infront of my cat, boots tight around my legs and shirt half unlaced from the heat, leaning on the bow, letting long brown hair cling to the back of my neck and the light glint off my blue eyes, regarding her, asking if I am as absentminded as they say. She doesn't respond, she has no need to, we both know the answer, of course I am. What other girl would dress like Robin Hood and go to school, or wear a sorceress hat around the house? Yes, ok, I am a dreamer, a wisher, a magic bean buyer, but who cares, when it comes down to it? My daydreams spoken aloud as stories have briefly alliveated the pain of many people. Then I ask the cat, should I write my stories down, these stories that haunt me by night and consume me by day? She doesn't blink, she has no need to, we both know the common answer to that one too. Yes, write because that is what you are ment to do, there is no doubt about that. Write for yourself and then let other people judge your own fantasy. And so I nod and sigh and, with the cat asleep in my lap, write.