I had this imagination as a kid. Actually, many would say I still have it today, but a lot has changed in my elusive phenomena since the blissful days of youth. My imagination has become overrun with thoughts, no not thoughts, worries. I once to let my mind take me where it lead, never questioning or doubting anything I wrote or spoke. But as money became the parliament of my existence; bills, loans, even gas prices made work the main attraction of my spinning creative world. I pushed aside the stories and opinions that made my passions fun, I stopped writing.
About a month ago, a friend of mine made time out of his equally work-driven life to share a cup of coffee and toss around musings. As we conversed, the conversation itself began to spark a light in my self that had been dormant for so long. I realized as I indulged in my opinions and stories, that I felt no stress and for once contentment. He scolded me for neglecting my blog, for working too much, and for not being my smart-ass self. As simple and irrelevant as that sounds, the truth is my bitter work life had snuffed me out. I stopped being a smart, creative, ass; showing the harsh reality and mishaps of life to the faces of whomever I met.
I haven't felt like my light and adventurous self in months. As I approach a year of not doing anything for myself I am ashamed at where I have let my creativity go to; school/my work and the abuse it sucked from me. Battling with the future, I refuse to do it anymore. I am not going to live or write for the corporate scum of our country. Little by little I will fill the pages of that Fleetwood Mac covered journal he gave me, and I will dissect every charachter and plot line that has been racing in my head for years.
stop worrying where to start, whom will care, will I fail or will I ever get everything settled into the perfect paragraph? who would read my stories? why do I even try? I'll never be as great as the literary heroes, what story to tell first?