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I dream at night about the stories that float around in my brain. I play them out repeatedly. Trying to think about scenes working one way or another, the stakes of the characters, the settings, the believability of situations, all of it haunts me while simultaneously invigorating my creative desires. I write little exchanges here and there, jot down ideas, rework old narratives into something completely different only to feel discouraged by not having enough time. I try to get inspiration from my writing and story teller heroes when I feel the most lost. But itās my brain that defeats me all the time. I am my own worst enemy. Iām my worst critic. Iām the roadblock to my own happiness.
Entire worlds exist in my head, a personified muse that is looking for a way back to her home, a corrupt scientific organization that looks for a way to force people into singularity, a child who needs to navigate a steampunk world with her stuffed robotic lizard, a man who struggles with keeping his sanity after his wife dies, little vignettes of people surviving a world where all electric things turn off forever, the list goes on an on. I often feel torn between different realities, like Iām betraying a gift that has been given to me, squandering imagination for the sake of ācomplianceā in the ārealā world. Imagine opening a door, beholding the wonderment and awe of a world so vibrant and clear only to have it slammed shut by a force composed of self-doubt and imposed time constraints. I start to drift into what-ifs and regrets. All thanks to my over active, often silenced, never realized imagination.
I just want to tell stories. I just want to entertain. I donāt know how to break out of this cycle; the repetitive hole I constantly dig myself into. I believe Iām going to die with my ideas never actually seeing paper, or the screen, or being heard by anotherās ears. I remind myself of all those motivational sayings, the conversations I have with friends, the documentaries I have watched, the interviews and all that only to sink back into a loneliness that only I feel. I feel like sometimes I exist between imagination and reality with no real solution on which path to take. Itās as if society has locked me up, putting me on rails I dare not jump. How do you cope with this? How do you embrace your craft without rocking the boat of responsibility and duty? How do you unleash your craft without sacrificing comfort?
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