The Muse of Insanity

My writings as of late are probably not very “good”.  I hesitate to use that word because, to me, they are good.  I do not mean to imply that their quality is of such a stupendous nature that they will enrapture audiences across the world.  In fact, I doubt my writings would garnish audiences of any type.  Rather, my writings fulfill a different purpose: getting out.  I have all of these little stories literally living inside my mind.  The characters creep amongst the stairwells and hide in the nooks and crannies that seem to take up the vast majority of space in my head. They begin to build up if I go too long without writing.  It’s as if my mind is some world onto itself and, if left unchecked by a lack of writing, will become so overpopulated with characters and scenes that I have difficulty completing daily tasks.

It is true.  I find myself completely diverted by them.  It can even become dangerous if, perhaps, I am driving from town to town as I frequently do as of late.  I find my mind has completely shifted from the steering wheel to the fantastical realms of my own creation.  If I do not write these things down, they multiply and eventually, I am left unable to function hardly at all.  It sounds insane, and perhaps I am for having such a mind.  I dare not claim it.

The bright side to all of this is, of course, that I have a never ending supply of things to write about.  I could sit on my front porch and watch a leaf blow down the street and my mind, if I allow it to, will begin a fantastical story about the leaf or someone/something that has come into contact with it.  In fact, I have to strangle this muse of mine quite often or she will pollute my very sanity.. or what is left of it.  I find myself literally cutting my mind off and shutting down my imagination so that I am not overwhelmed by it.  It becomes worse whenever an episode of Depression sets in.  It feels as if the characters of the stories are in my mind, suffocating.  I know I must write, but when I am Depressed, I am unable and so the stories slowly die.  It literally (not figuratively) causes me physical pain when this happens.  It feels as if a part of myself is dying as well.

I do not mean to melodramatic, I simply wanted to share with the echoing spaces of the Internet that my writing may not be “up to par”, but it still serves a useful purpose.


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