Lost in My Mind

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Writing is a way for me to extensively express the creativity of my soul. The words I rhyme in a poem or jam together into a novel help me speak to the world and people around me. It is my outlet to the texts of the modern age. If examined closely, my creative works seem to ooze with heartache, delight, insanity, adventure, religious confusion, or whatever other emotions I feel or go through at the time I write them. Writing has taken me on a journey toward self-discovery and wonderment.

I started writing my own poems, short stories, and bits and pieces of novels a few years ago when I started reading extensively. After spending a couple of months reading, I began to develop my own ideas for stories and poems from multiple tales of monsters and supernatural beings, as well as from my dreams. I became more grammatically educated and learned how to develop my ideas in a more intelligible fashion. This being said, once the ideas were there and I continued reading multiple books a week, whenever I thought about individual authors and their work, I found myself thinking, “If they can do it, so can I.” As soon as that thought had popped into my mind, it took root and planted little seedlings to the possibly send me to a state of feasible, mental demise.

My creativity towards writing often makes me wonder about my mental state. To hear conversations in my mind between people who are not even real, being able to image what they look like, what they are wearing, what they are doing, occasionally causes me to muse about my future sanity. This is not something that one generally converses about with others because if I can see and hear everything in such depth and detail, who is to say that I will not eventually believe what my mind imagines and wants me to write? To me, admitting to somebody that, from time to time, my characters from my story seem almost like they are really there, talking inside my head, is like having a stranger walk up to me and claim that they are a necromancer. Were that to happen, I know I would wonder about his mental state, I am certain he would think about mine as well. Though the detail of what my mind creates causes me to worry about whether or not I will end up in a mental asylum when I become an old, wrinkled crone, I think that in order to have a believable, fictional piece of writing, one must be at least a little bit of eccentricity in the mind.

In order to portray a believable reality in a fictional piece of work, one must be at least a wee bit imaginatively insane. When Bram Stoker wrote Dracula, some fractional part must have believed in the possibility of vampires. At some point in time, he must have believed in a childhood story or legend that led him to write about bloodsucking fiends. Otherwise, I do not believe it would have been such a captivating story. How can one write well about something that they are not passionate about? In order to be passionate anything, there must be a belief. For example, one cannot say, “I love my eternal lord, Jesus Christ,” but not believe in him. Therefore, this leads me believe that in order to be creative, one must be mildly insane in order to write a fictional piece of work. No man can be truly sane if he writes words of fiction because he, himself, must believe in order to convince others to believe in their version of whatever reality they choose to reveal.

The world of writing is a marvelous place. Every piece of writing, every work of literature, every poem, or even a movie script makes at least one reader think about or believe in the words that have been writing. I love to write, and I often hope that my work makes readers think about or at least appreciate what I have written. Should my creative writing ever send me to the loony bin in the future, I do not believe I would stop writing, for as Ray Bradbury once said, “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”





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