Writing was my thing, my lifeline, my identity. I was a writer. I can't claim to be a writer now because I barely write at all. I have nothing to write about. My life has become boring. My heart is forever scarred but I've written my pain into apathy. That story is worn out, cliche, irrelevant.
I'm tired of the past, it's dead and gone and I want to bury it six feet under and forget most of it ever happened. Really, more than anything, I wish I could get amnesia and literally forget everything before this moment. Even the good memories hurt tonight.
The other day at work a customer bought a plaque with a quote from Dr. Seuss that said, "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." I know I should take this as my motto, I have had a lot of experiences that I could smile about; but right now, at the end of one of the best ever, it hurts too much to smile about. I'm not ready for it to end. I've known the end was coming and I've tried so hard to hold on to and savor ever second but the loneliness of the last couple weeks proves that the era is over.
Book, movie, and television characters have reclaimed their position as my most reliable companions. The trouble, though, is that they are not as captivating as they once were. When I was younger these were my best friends, sometimes, my only friends. Now that I have been nearly constantly surrounded by real, interactive, tangible people, the non-responsive ones on the screen or the page are not enough.
It used to be that if the movies and books didn't provide the companionship I craved, I could slip into my own imagination and create for myself the world for which I ached. So many hours of my life have been survived, even enjoyed through writing and daydreaming. Now I can't conjure up anything but a ghost-like whisper; no more than a second or two of reprieve. Daydreams are myths, stories and poems distant memories.
Reality got in the way.
It was easier to imagine before I experienced anything. I used to think that in order to write well, you had to write from what you've lived. Now it seems that life stole and destroyed my imagination and my ability to write anything of worth.
Maybe reclusive writing is the way to go after all.
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