My mind never ceases to rest. I can feel it working out new maps of contorted circumstances when I am busy doing other things. Sometimes I feel like my mind's not my own, like it lives for it's self. I hear many different voices in my head, like new characters my mind will create and a plot for the taking. I will scribble sprightly with each letter constantly aching my fingers until I receive writers cramp. I keep myself busy. A writer is born, with a creative gift, an artist who needs to work hard at his craft as if fighting to breath. There is no supplement for hard work. At times when I feel like not writing I know that I can write in my blog, that way I'm still writing. It's like my life journal, I enjoy blogging. I have to constantly jot notes down in my phone wherever I go, and those who know me well can tell I'm been quiet because I'm working. As a boy I was to undeveloped as to notice that my crazy thoughts were just my imagination growing with me. They were growing pains. Just like a born sprinter will gradually exceed his or her peers in P.E, my thought process began to manifest leaving my immature nature behind. I think this is the reason I gave an impression of being mad at school. Now, as a young man (nearly 30) I have the responsibility to control my mind to a degree, after all I am I. It's all about the man, or woman in the mirror and really knowing who you are. Self knowledge. It's just the beginning for me, like the evolution of the planet in the lunar cosmos.
The only question I have is...who is writing this now?
No comments:
Post a Comment