I think I can finally write again. I’m not too sure.
Inspiration is a funny thing. It comes like rain, only every once in a while, but when it does it soaks the ground full so it’ll last for some time. Until the sun comes back again and dries everything.
I don’t know where to start though. Ideas come here and there, bits and pieces. I think I’ll just start somewhere and see how it goes.
Writing stories makes me feel like I’m in an adventure of my own. That’s why I love it so much.
I remember I had a great revelation of sorts back at the time before I started writing stories.
I kept complaining about how life was so boring and I wish I had a more interesting life. Then I realised that my life is as interesting as I want it to be.
It’s the same with happiness. Instead of looking for the feeling of being happy, it makes more sense to adopt an attitude of joy towards everything that happens. To see the best of things. To be grateful. There’s always something to be grateful for if you look hard enough.
Okay back to the story thingy.
I think I’ve forgotten that feeling I had whenever I sat by myself quietly typing away into the night. It’s almost like a dream, but you’re typing at the same time. Dream-typing. That feeling is quite magical. Because even though you’re seated you could still be in a far-off distant land soaring into the skies and talking to people who aren’t really a part of this world.
And you learn so much more about yourself.
I’d always like to think of myself as a writer even if I’m not going to be one in the future. Professionally, I mean. It’s just such a cool thing!
I really want to finish my story so that I can let my grandmother read it. I don’t want to take too long, so I guess that will be my motivation to not take forever. And people don’t last forever too.
Okay time to pull out my bean bag and my lap top.