Word Vomit @ 11:35pm
If I were to ever write a brief speech about my life, it would go something like this…
I grew up reading books. I learned that a fantasy world was much more exciting than the one I lived in. I found my escape, but the escape was never enough. I wanted the journey. I wanted the story world to never end.
So I started to write. I built worlds with people and colors and grand adventures in galaxies unheard of, and in these worlds, I could do anything. I could do the impossible, be the impossible.
Writing was not just an escape for me. See, I’m the type of person who wants to live a hundred lives in a hundred different places surrounded by people who don’t exist anywhere else but my imagination. I’ve traveled the world seeking this experience. Pretending to be someone I’m not. Being someone I am but in a place I might never see again. Yet I’ve never found the kind of peace that I have in writing. I’ve seen snow fall like in a dream, I’ve laughed and made memories with friends I’ve not spoken to in years. I’ve looked down at the world from the top of a mountainside, and swam in deep oceans where silence is everywhere but drowning in beauty. You can never quite imagine those things.
And it’s the experiences that fuel the creativity in my mind to bleed words onto a page and make adventure real for people too afraid to seek it.
We all fill our heads with stories, but we forget that stories actually come from within us. And when I realized this, I became a writer.
I grew up reading books. I learned that a fantasy world was much more exciting than the one I lived in. I found my escape, but the escape was never enough. I wanted the journey. I wanted the story world to never end.
So I started to write. I built worlds with people and colors and grand adventures in galaxies unheard of, and in these worlds, I could do anything. I could do the impossible, be the impossible.
Writing was not just an escape for me. See, I’m the type of person who wants to live a hundred lives in a hundred different places surrounded by people who don’t exist anywhere else but my imagination. I’ve traveled the world seeking this experience. Pretending to be someone I’m not. Being someone I am but in a place I might never see again. Yet I’ve never found the kind of peace that I have in writing. I’ve seen snow fall like in a dream, I’ve laughed and made memories with friends I’ve not spoken to in years. I’ve looked down at the world from the top of a mountainside, and swam in deep oceans where silence is everywhere but drowning in beauty. You can never quite imagine those things.
And it’s the experiences that fuel the creativity in my mind to bleed words onto a page and make adventure real for people too afraid to seek it.
We all fill our heads with stories, but we forget that stories actually come from within us. And when I realized this, I became a writer.
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