I really miss my fictional writing endeavours. I love to write. I love to not just manipulate but utilise this beautiful creature we have called “language”, bend and mould and manoeuvre it’s syllables and trickeries into stories - to describe and discuss, to argue and question, to beautify and praise - and I just have not been able to. It is like all the life has gone out of my imagination, all the words drifted away, ran from me, hid from me, disguised themselves and boarded a plane to the other side of the planet, no a rocket ship blasted into the atmosphere and far off into the galaxies beyond this intergalactic milky way. Far and away from me. And I wonder why they abandoned me? Forsook me? Me? Their unquestionable defender. How could they leave me so alone? But the truth is, something along the way made me lose all faith in what I was writing. In writing itself. Talentless. Hopeless. Useless. The most unproductive and debilitating vocabulary invaded my mind and my soul and there it festered and bred more and more unease. The kind of negativity that I felt inadequate to engage in the ring.
But all I really needed to do, to say, to scream, to whisper, to bellow from the cliff tops to ring deep down into the abyss - was come at me. Bring it on. Let’s do this. I can do this. I want to do this. It is likely going to kill me, consume me, derail me, madden me, but I can’t say that it hasn’t done that already. And the only way I will ever hope to reach the standard that I envision myself reaching is if I try, try, try. Cause Kurt Vonnegut said, even if it’s crap - as long as I have tried, as I have put my best and my all into the ring I will have created something and my soul can only grow.