Stories. We thrive off of stories. We wake up each morning to begin a new story, a new chapter, a new paragraph in our messy, complicated and beautiful lives.
Story tellers are revered for their ability to communicate their perception of the world to others. Entertainment is story telling. Movies are stories. There is a saying that there are no new stories. Just old stories retold in different manners. Which makes me wonder- why do I write?
Why do I bother writing, when I can’t seem to master the art of story telling? Why do I find myself stuck in the beginning of the story? Why can’t I seem to finish my thoughts? One might blame the biological roadblocks I have or one might blame my crazy life. Or one might blame the society I grew up in.
Maybe, I’m kidding myself when I write this. Maybe, I’ve realized that I just don’t have what it takes. However, what boils my blood is the fact that there are published authors out there that make me wonder how they got published. Maybe, I’m just in the wrong genre. Writing is about expanding and challenging yourself. It is about look at the words on the screen and being critical of what was just written. Writing is about forming and reforming your thoughts and ideas until they make sense.
I know because I write and rewrite all the time. At least that’s what it seems like when I create stories within my mind and organize scenes and characters and motives. However, it seems I am the only one that likes my stories. I’ve sent work out- yes, it wasn’t completely polished and maybe I should have worked on it more. End of story. The rejections don’t bother me so much as the lack of reasoning behind the rejections. I know they receive massive volumes of material but a pointer or two doesn’t take years to write.
The thing is- I’m afraid. I’m afraid to write about the darkness within. I’m afraid to admit that I carry a darkness that scares me. She slumbers but I feel her in my skin. I never want to wake her. Why? because she isn’t afraid to kill and she relishes in destroying anything that gets in her way. All of the stories about superhuman powers and mutants and superhumans makes me wonder if the stories are true. There is another saying that says when enough people believe something it becomes true. Maybe, it is just evolution. Maybe, I am crazy. People with Narcolepsy are sometimes misdiagnosed with mental disorders like schizophrenia and multiple personality disorder among other diseases.
She slumbers as I write this and part of me wants to see what would happen if she woke up. The other half prays she never will. I’ve realized that fear haunts each step I take. I am afraid of who I truly am. I am afraid of what I am capable of. It is better to keep your head down and forget your potential (I tell myself that) than to open up a can of worms without knowing the consequences.
The question is- do I keep myself in the box or do I let the chains break?