Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Can I Ever Get It Back?

I used to write short stories while everything exciting was happening to those around me. If I cared to join them then the excitement in my life would have never seen a chance. I believe that I had something that couldn't be touched. Something that kept me speaking; tangled in cherished discourse with characters I had never met in real life, even though if this took the shape of my real life, I would never have one qualm with it. Birthing the climatic situations of their lives came easy; it's fortifying any present execution of them that has become trying.
Writing began when I was a happy sixth grader; when the excitement of being in junior high and then high school prompted daydreaming in class about the crush I had that present hour, which then allowed my characters to share a kiss or act out that teenage relationship that I wouldn’t see until the tenth grade and then mourn its loss for what seemed like forever after. Writing began when I was impressionable, morphed into something necessary to survive when I no longer was and died when I realized there was nothing left to fight for.
Every year when I clean out my past stored in plastic bins upon plastic bins, I come across that black pee chee folder torn at its fold, filled with 150 stories I spent writing either in Mr. Kidder's American Government or at home on Wednesday nights watching Party of Five, while my parents hollered in excitement at the NBA playoffs emanating through that little Toshiba television set that will live long with an unsavory reputation, yet with a twinge of something that will always make me smile in service of it.
All I heard then was the sound of happiness. I only wish pleasant stimulation could hit me the way it did then, now.

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