A True Coward

I just need to let go, to maybe try lifting this pressure a little; at least to the point where I don’t feel like I’m being suffocated, anyway. Writing usually helps; it always has before.

Maybe if I try writing a story, engulfing myself in a world of magic. That’s a line in Paramore’s song Brick by Boring Brick.

“Well, you built a up world of magic! Because your real life is tragic.”

That’s what I usually do. I lock myself in my imagination and let loose the words that flow from my heart, creating an entirely new world to live in. And when that one turns to crap, I build a new one. And so on and so forth. I just keep moving on, keep going from one fantasy to another.

Sure, it’s cowardly of me. To hide from my problems until, hopefully, they die out? Heck yeah, it’s cowardly.

Writing is a cowardly thing; especially when you’re a fiction writer. Most of us, as I’m sure it’s safe to assume, write to escape. We never think about where we’re hiding, or what the consequences of hiding will be; we just think of the moment and try to escape it by locking ourselves in our minds.

But sometimes the imagination is too much to contain, so we have to let it go, a little of it, and we do that by writing. Well, that’s my theory anyway.

At first I started out reading. But I got tired of being told what to imagine in my mind, so I started creating my own fantasies in my head--just thinking them. But they became too much for me and I began to write.

Writing is actually like my drug. I'm just like a heroin user, or a meth user, or anything along those lines.

Those drugs are addicting, and the more you use them, the more you die a little inside.

It's dangerous.

The more I write about my magical fantasy worlds, the more I wish I was there in them, and the more I hate the life I’ve been given. I die a little inside each time I write.

But I can’t stop. Because even though it kills me inside, I draw strength from it. I know that, when reality becomes too much for me, I have a secret place to fall back on. A safe haven.

And the natural high I get from it is just amazing. It’s surreal, just like the fiction I write.

I love the thrill of running through a jungle-like setting. I love creating my first kiss over and over in my head, each time a little different. I love creating the perfect friend, the one that I can't find anywhere but in my head. I love to cry when my character experiences a true tragedy. I love creating my perfect scene, the scene I want so badly in my own life, yet lack the opportunity to experience it.

I love to fly on the winds of conscious minds, flapping the wings created of soft white feathers and words flowing from one to another.

Writing is magical. Writing is freedom. Writing is cowardly. Writing is glorious, magnificent, addicting, easy. It's something I'm good at. It's something I love.

I don't think when I write. I just feel. It all comes naturally, the incredible metaphors and similes, the new words and experiences.

It's like a rhythmical beat, a pulse pumping my life's source through my veins, sustaining me and keeping me happy. But also killing me.

I guess that I don't mind dying for something I truly love to do. A martyr, if you so please. Or stupidity. Whichever you like best.

I'm not interested in being the best writer there is, though that certainly would be an admirable title. I'm not interested in winning every poetry competition, or every writing competition there is. I only join them because it gives me an excuse to write.

An excuse to free myself from reality, the chains that hold me to the ocean's floor. An excuse to breathe, if only theoretically.

That's enough for me.

 

I guess I've given quite the explanation. Wouldn't you say?

 

Good day, restless reader.

Bazookas and Kazoos,

--Keegan (Or Seattle)

The End

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