I wanna take this moment to say that I do not deserve to call myself a writer. If I was, I'd be totally devoted to it. I'd do it more. I'd do it all the time. I was a writer once. I'd write as I breathed in, air and pen becoming the very things that kept me going. But these days I just sit and read. Rather than compose, I take in the compositions of others. They are good. And I am ashamed. I am ashamed to call myself a writer.
I am not deserving of the title. What I am is an old flame, that once burned brilliantly. However, I was doused with the sands of time, and what is left is not but ash. I rise from the ground. I attempt to put myself together, and continue as though what I am is what I was before. But there are wholes in this new person. There are wholes that were once filled with creativity. I wrap myself up tightly, trying to preserve the remnants of my past status.
I am much like a mummy.
A pull of a string, and I'd no longer be able to pretend.
A pull of a string, and everyone would see the truth:
. . . that the writer in me is simply make-believe.
Pen and Paper were once my lovers. The baring of ink on flat surface something I deemed more satisfying than the locking of lips, the insision of skin, the empty of hunger. I woke up each morn, searching for Paper, calling out to Pen. But one day I woke up screaming, lusting after something human. I severed my ties with Pen and Paper. I've tried to keep in touch, but let's be honest. They want nothing to do with me. Of that I am certain. One question remains. Shall I give up the ghost? Or shall I milk from my past all that I can?
For someone who isn't a writer, this was pretty good, I must say. Deep and full of passion. Milk from the past till it catches up with your present. And one of the best ways to become a good writer is to read the writings of others. This too shall pass =)
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