There is a box in the attic. It's no bigger or smaller than any of the other boxes, and there's nothing on it that would draw the eye. It is a simple cardboard box, slightly fraying around the edges from disuse and dust.
If you were to climb the narrow stairs and enter the hot, dusty attic, the box would be right where it always has been-on top of the old filing cabinet you got rid of because the doors kept sticking in hot weather. Walk over to the box and open it-try not to sneeze at the years of dust that's accumulated on the top and inside.
Inside are papers-piles and piles of papers, the ink starting to fade and run together. Pick up a handful, but be careful-they could crumble to dust at any minute. Sift through them, these papers. What are they?
Stories. Stories of far off places, of dashing men and brave women. An entire world of fantasy, woven in words. A way of escaping, just for a minute, the harsh realities of life. Perhaps once, they could have been seen by others, made their writer a modest living.
But he(the mind skirts away from thinking his name, for fear that might summon him, like some demon of lore) doesn't approve of these flights of fancy, and the constant jibes and belittling have taken their toll. The mind no longer churns with ideas for stories and novels. Now it bows in subservience to the ideas of the Other.
The papers are placed carefully, almost reverently, back in the box. Leave the attic, turn off the light, and go back to the real world.
He will be coming home soon, and he wants dinner ready.