This notion that you explore, of the mind being a sequence of hallways, is a vision that I've had of my own "internal dialogue" before. It can be very much like wandering down a serpentine, labyrinth that is lined with seemingly infinite doors, yet is also, somehow a spiderweb of junctions.

In my "head vision", its tenuously attached to twigs of a tree , writhing in the storm, buffeted by wind and rain.

I am the spider in that maze. The storm never seems to stop, but in that storm is constantly a sense of possibility, expectation, and wonder at what the storm might be.

Chaos, as much as it may upset us, is a natural state of matter. Chaos will ever increase.

But for some reason, we manage to order it in whatever functions occur in the space between our ears, behind our eyes.

Don't stop writing, and don't ever apologise for doing it. We cannot be made to feel guilty for our requirement to express ourselves.