This whole time I’ve been writing. Each time I pick up a pen or pencil, and a piece of paper I begin to write. It’s always about something. About everything really. Same with the computer. As soon as I get on I begin to type. There’s almost no end to it.
Each time I put a word down more follow. They just keep coming; flowing like water. First forming into a sentence, then a paragraph, and before I know it, a story. Then it’s not long before many stories are created. It’s a gift and a curse.
The gift is that they can be written, but the curse is that the writer can easily become trapped. We write the characters whom, in some ways, reflect ourselves. But sometimes we become them. Who we are and how we think remain the same, but how we act around others, that’s what changes. We become them because we write them to be us. Everything we ever wanted. Everything we ever wish we could do. All of it is part of the characters we create. They are a reflection of our greatest desires. Because we never claim those things are characters do we become trapped within each story we write. We live in our stories, and our characters live in both worlds. Everywhere we go, they go. They follow us because we bring them with us.
There is no escape.
It gets so bad that when we are needed in the real world we have a hard time breaking away from our stories and out of character.
When we do get back to reality we hear, read, and watch things that makes our minds wonder further into other ideas and topics. It is then and how all that we write become written. We are inspired by life, by death, by the world. Everything draws our attention. We are interested in everything.
We are silent, but we are loud. We are trapped, but we are free.
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