PREFACE: This blog was written 11/19/2012 during the midst of NaNoWriMo season. I was going to place it in a collaboratative blog, but felt it was so personal that it would fit best here. Most of my NaNo friends have already read this, but I wanted to share it with others. I should note that, while not on drugs or boozed up, I was listening to Hans Zimmer's "Time" from the Inception soundtrack while writing this. Especially during the second half where things get crazy. I mention this being it seems it has about the same affect on me. On that note I would also like to say, "Fuck you, Hans Zimmer!" That is all. Enjoy.

At this time I am sitting at the Wilde Roast Cafe with a handful of people I would say I consider friends. Some maybe mere acquaintances I won’t see much beyond the month of November. Maybe most of them will fall into that category. I seem to place connections made on a higher level than most do. I guess I feel I make friends easy, but that isn’t to say there aren’t different levels of friendship. Very few ever make it into any kind of personal level with me. Even those on a personal level, who I have known for years and years, know very little about me. I have high school friends that I consider best of friends who know very little.

Why is this?

I have never been one to talk about myself. I may talk about a variety of things I am very passionate about, but rarely myself. Gaming, movies, morals, etc etc. are all viable topics that can get me to go on and on. I am sure at times people wish I would shut up. Some mistake this as me being very open about myself, but it couldn't be further from the truth. These are just topical things. Important, to me, but not completely giving much away about me. Or maybe I just feel it doesn’t? Perhaps it is the other way around and I show way more of myself than I expect and people know exactly who I am. Have I been fooling myself? Thinking that I have fooled everyone else, when I am the joke.

Recently in the past months I have been opening up about my own dark secrets from my past. Secrets that had not been shared with anyone at any point throughout my life. Mine to hold... alone. Most of those were not of a positive nature. Most have caused deep traumatic issues that I have yet to resolve. This is why I am currently opening up about such things. In hopes to finally release them and jar free from the rut I have been stuck in for half of my life. How much have my secrets held me back in life? What have I stopped myself from experiencing because of fear? It is one of those things that I cannot even fully know, and comprehend myself.

A handful of things I understand, like my writing. I know it  has directly affected my ability to create. Why at a later age, though? This confuses me. The event, one of the major traumatic ones, took  place when I was a child. All through school, though, I was able to write, draw, create. It was after I graduated that suddenly the block presented itself. Especially my writing. I understand that my own self inner critic also plays a large role in my inability to write. I believe that a lack of confidence in myself plays a part in having quit drawing too. I quit most everything creative.

Another factor, the loss of large quantities of my work. How many times does it need to happen to me before I smarten up, save and backup my work. Was I wanting it to happen? To have the possibility to fail? To be lost? It seems that way to me sometimes. I cannot explain it. Almost like self-sabotage. The intent that I want the chance for it to be ruined so then I have no responsibility of having to finish or maintain any of my work. I fear failure, but I also fear success. Having to continually produce work of a specific nature, constantly improving and growing (which is something I want). Just the fact of meeting expectations of producing more work scares the shit out of me.

I’ve had a writer’s block for ten years. Twelve technically. Only very minor writings were produced in that time frame. A fanfic, which in essence wouldn’t get you anywhere in the writing world in terms of income and supporting a life. Also, small amounts of work consisting of a few paragraphs were conjured up. No drawing. That is something I haven’t done in just as long. Just this past week I began doodling again, hoping that that may spark interest and inspiration. It has... I’ve had inspiration and sparks of interest even for my writing, and I can feel it there. Burning. It has always been there. That urge. To write. To create. To bring forth the thoughts of my heads into the world; manifesting them into something more than idle ideas.

Then the block. For whatever reasons, it remains intact. Even now, but granted its hold is weakened. I can feel it there. Waiting for the moment to strike. To crush my dreams and desires of creating and sharing with the world. I try so hard to not let it win. In the end, though, who really knows what will become. So many try in so many different ways with so many different dreams. And fail. They fall into the depth of their depression or fears or hate. Become consumed by it. I have felt that same pull. Even tonight. One moment enjoying myself amongst friends. If not friends, certainly comrades, all on the same journey, with the same goal as myself. We gather to do, what some would call, battle.

We attempt to shed our blocks, to write, to create. Those conquering their blocks, and sometimes even those still struggling, encourage and spur on trying to rally together and inspire words to flow. Yet, even surrounded by those on the same quest, I find myself torn. Torn by a different sense of pseudoism. The pervasive thought as to how real any of this is. The camaraderie and friendships. Joined together for the length of exactly one months time. Then after that? What comes next? Thrust out into the void of of aloneness.

“Time’s up, you pathetic soul,” it screams to me. “You better hope you got your words in!”

And so what if I did? What difference would it make? Was I to learn how to continue on this trek alone? Was that the point of this journey? I should have been paying more attention.

December and beyond is for editing and rewrites. So must the entire story to be finished by then? What if it is not yet complete? So what if it is? More ideas of your soul wish to be bore through what you were channelling. Your creative vortex finally freeing it into the world. But something happened; a shift. Those who were there, cheering you on, attempting to get your creative juices flowing, are gone. Like a rapture took place and you were the only soul left behind. Left to fend for yourself.

“You were trained well for this, were you not, Child? This was what you have been training for this entire time.”

“No... no it really wasn’t,” I protest.

“Oh, but it was. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

For this I have no answer. I seek my memories of what could have possibly prepared me for this moment. To be again thrust out into the cold alone. The very thing that brought me into that world was the warmth. The inviting glow of friendly faces and auras surrounding them. Auras promising of a plethora of ideas to be shared. Friends to be made. Likened souls preparing to undergo the most grueling of tasks. Preparing for a war against the most vile of oppressors. Themselves. Here, though, they wouldn’t be fighting alone. They would never have to be alone. Until the end. Whether successful or not, in the end it is always the same. You are alone.

My soul cries out in anguish. It no longer wishes to be alone. It knows it is connected to everything, yet has felt alone for so long. Don’t throw it back out into the cold. All it needs is warmth and love. All anyone needs is love. All our lives we prepare ourselves to accept and give love.

Doesn’t anyone realize that this is what we have been training for this entire time?

Haven’t you been paying attention?