I wish I could explain the things I write or where my muses come from but most of the time they don’t make sense to even me. I’ve written stories novel length that have stemmed from hearing a single word, seen a simple object and suddenly my heart will ache because in my mind there is an entire story connected to something as simple as a swing set or a half-eaten apple core. Those clouds you just saw and thought of as boring old clouds with maybe a duck thrown in? I saw a complete new world with mystical creatures made of mist and light that no one has ever heard of. That’s just how my brain works.
There are things I have written that I would never dare show anyone in my family or the people I have grown up with. Things that go against the morals I have been taught and what the world deems right and wrong. There is light and dark in the world, morbidity and mystery and both intrigue me in ways I can’t explain. Sometimes there are scenes in my mind that cause me to shiver in disgust and frighten me but regardless of where they come from, and I usually don’t know, they are still there and the only way to get them out of my head is to put them down on paper. I have a hard time thinking that it is wrong to write such things then, I didn’t ask for them to visit me, those scenes, but they did anyway and I need to get them out in some way.
I once read the following and fell in love; “Create. Not because you want to or because the mood grabs you or just because you happen to feel like it. Create because you need to. Because it feels like if you don't, you might die."
They really hit me, not because I feel like I will die if I don’t sit down at try to organize my thoughts in the form of a story or pick up a paintbrush and capture the images on canvas… but because sometimes I am afraid that I will go insane if I don’t. It is frustrating to have a story, a world, a scene, trapped inside your skull with nowhere to go. They simply run around in circles until I take time out to sort through them and put them in some semblance of order.
In the end I guess I am what you would call the epitome of a dreamer… only unlike some I don’t dream about the future. Instead my mind is in places others could never imagine because they are my creations.
Then some days I am terrified that one day my ideas will run out and what will I be left with? An empty space for a head? Blank areas in my mind that have nothing to occupy themselves with? It is one of my greatest fears.
This is me…