I remember how I used to tell stories. How my fingers would tremble with excitement when I'd pick up a pencil and how I’d press too hard and rip the pages of my spiral notebooks. How my fingers seemed to know what I was going to say next without my brain having registered it.
I remember how I would live for the moment when I reach the last period and stop and rub my sore thumb and not remember ever writing the words I saw. I remember reading back over them and smiling because I could hardly understand each letter or where the words ended or that they were even wholly mine, but I knew they were because my breath quivered with the cadence and it sang to me.
Now, I only write.
I never knew the basics, I didn't read much back then. I read too much now, too much. It’ll never really be the same again, not pure like it was then, not white and wholesome and stained with blue for sadness and red for anger. It will never really mystify me like that.
I pick up a pencil and my fingers tremble with fear. I press too lightly and I can't see the words. My brain says too many things but none of it is enough to put down on a page.
I'm too conscious. I'm too worried about plot and what this character would say next or why they would do that.
It's better. It's better for my stories, I know. It's worse for my heart.
Instead of the splashes of color on the white canvas and how I would fall into it, collecting colors and not wondering why, just that they were pretty, I zoom past the colors and miss them, too busy wondering why. Why this color, why not that one, why don't these two mix.
I used to tell stories, however bad I knew they were, however many times I knew an adult was smiling at me and encouraging me because they thought I would get better and make a name for myself. I would be proud to show them off, to hold it up and say that I had fun telling it.
Now, I only solve puzzles and show off their perfection, their plastic with their vibrant colors that go too well together, their word-perfect, shining pictures. I do well, I perfect them well, but I don't tell them well, with the same passion.
Now, I only write.