Today, I had something very special and cool to post. However, adobe premiere and after effects refuse to render files in a timely fashion. So, here I am. Typing a legitimate blog.
I can't remember the last time I actually wrote a story or even decided how good of an idea it would be to write a letter to someone I haven't spoke to in ages. Could throw them for a loop. Nobody really gets letters anymore. Everything is digital. The only actual person who's cell number I can remember is my mother's. Although, I suppose that's not the worst thing. I could have ended up only remembering the number of a far gone lover from years ago who temporarily meant something to the future of my past self.
Actually, as I'm talking to myself aloud in this here apartment of mine. I do recall when I did write letters. They were always addressed to the same person and it was for years at a time.
Of course, it is a past lover. But, the course of events leading to the end of the letters could be a psychological reason behind my decade-long writing slump. I would never agree that this event is the sole reason behind the block of all my creative words. I have been expressive through other forms such as poetry and random cartoon idea scribblings (Just wait until make that cartoon). The ideas are there. Forming, shaping, and birthing them unto the Earth are another story (no pun intended).
Returning to the reason for why these letters stopped.
You see, this former lover was killed in a drunk driving accident.
I deliver this to you as abrupt as possible to spare any notions of a potential for happy endings.
For this is how it was delivered to me.
I simply haven't felt the need to go out of my way to create some fantastical tale designed to inspire those seeking phantasmagorical refuge from their daily routines.
For this, I apologize. I myself am seeking refuge.
I've robbed the world of my creativity. This is not ego. It's truly a horrifying fact.
Nobody was looking for me or what I could bring to the table. I simply hid under it.
Days, Weeks, Months, Years.
I've been far too comfortable in this spot. My bones have gotten weak. My spine has slipped out of line.
As has my attitude towards a lot of things. I can feel myself rotting away and even the mirror image of myself, standing there staring; refusing to do anything about it. He is trapped behind a thick pane of glass.
There is hope. What kind of story would this be if there wasn't an element of salvation?
Aha. See.
If I can write a story about not being able to write stories anymore, then surely something inside me is deciding to wake up and smell the coffee, as they say.
Thanks to this wonderful community, I am trying harder to become a better whatever it is I am supposed to become.
Who I am supposed to become.
This is officially Log 1 of a writing series I'm starting for myself.
However, being the community you all are, feel free to join.
I have a goal for this.
That goal is, I want to make the cartoon that's been burrowing in my brain for the past year and a half.
I feel as though that will end up being the ultimate challenge and therapy to releasing my full potential onto the world. I will continue looking for a way to love myself better everyday.
