For a long time I’ve felt like a lost soul. A dampened spirit without a glow. Like a book without an ending, I was shut closed and pushed away to the back of the shelf. The words disappeared with time as I became an unfinished story. I wrote an old post once, ‘Backbones of New Awakenings’ that paints a portrait of a younger and spontaneous me, full of life and imagination searching for new thrills to explore. I talked about what writing meant to me.
Anecdotes were the scapegoat of my perplexing imagination, and in the real world it may seem bizarre and cause confusion, but that was the beauty of my style.
I really missed that world. I missed falling deep into my writing, my characters and into their universe. I went onto saying:
It’s amazing how just a few words and sentences can craft such vividness in our conscious mind. It’s a place to get away by creating another new dimension by giving it personality, depth and using the five vital senses as the key ingredients for perception. You are the master in creating your own characters and their mental capacity, as well as giving them a perception of their own space around them. Having control of their thoughts, emotions and actions are riveting, since it is so easy to build their status, yet take it away with one click of the erase button.
And it hit me.
I had erased myself, just like I have with unworthy characters that had no purpose in the narrative arc. I had no purpose to the arc of life that I have hoped to venture out into. Instead of escaping to my comfort zone and falling into a dream where reality did not exist, I abandoned a part of me that had gone unwritten.