I find myself wanting to write a story. Not a true story but a creative one, a story that can serve as a means of escape. Just as I struggle to sleep and tread in a world of imaginative dreams I struggle to find my story, a story, one that will fulfil the need for escape.
When I think about writing a story I think about the plot, does my story have one? If it does not is there a moral to it or is it all anecdotal? What voice should I use? How much detail is required, how fantastical or real shall I make it?
There are so many thoughts to consider that I feel drained before having typed the first word. Most stories work with a general idea, a general ending already in mind. I do not write odysseys but instead, I aim to write shorter pieces with the feeling of such grand adventures or moments of enlightenment all but a few will ever experience first hand.
I would like to write a story that inspires that few, or at the very least a close relative or friend so that when they do go on to experience their grand adventures and find enlightenment. They will recall their cousin told them about a pretty good story once.
When I ask about writing but specifically just what should I write about the answer would be to draw from what you observe. Draw from the things in your life, your thoughts on topics or your experiences.
I would then draw a blank and be right back where I started.
No, this story of mine will need to write itself, I can not write what I do not know. What I do not know should make itself known within what I write. I find the mind does that to you. As though it requires a toll, more accurately I would say a spark.
I do not wish to say it accurately because the mind rejects my accuracy and delivers me nought but blank sheets.
It fains being exhausted of all my thinking when it knows it has but thought of one letter.
I wish to trick it into writing something of worth, something that flows forth before it has time to close the sluices and drain all my abstractions of creativity.
Maybe there is more, maybe my mind does not stop me from writing the story I wish but is protecting me from discovering a lack of ability, would I want to imbue emotion and coax myself to feel? More so do I wish to extend dreaming to my waking moments, find solace outside of sleep?
Am I asking these questions? Do I want to write something or do I want to write a story?
If I can't write a story then writing something would have to suffice, my mind may turn the letters crimson as it wishes, leaving ash in its wake. It may seem to be a great consolation, my words burnt onto page after page.
Words relating to happenings of the day. Yea. Words that provide opinion on a matter. Yea. Words that share understanding. Yea.
Not words that understand though, not words that listen and not words that reflect. It is here the now and only words that burn for but a moment.
I can't help but think that a single tear from having written a story could wipe the ashes of all the pages leaving nothing but the memory of how they made you feel.
I would like to write that story.
But I can't.
