so finally, after several years of attaching a thousand parachutes on myself, i am ready to make the jump.
am i happy?
i can’t tell.
i am excited that’s for sure.
there’s really no guarantee if i’ll make it though.
i’ll jump off with eyes closed.
i am terribly afraid of heights.
the more i see the vastness of space and land extending it’s arms to embrace me, the more i feel my heart sinking.
sinking to unknown depths of my soul,
drowning itself in the comforts of the unknown.
those places where my strongest memories hide,
like sunken pirate ships filled with treasures.
what if my thousand parachutes are all dysfunctional?
do i really have the faith that there will always be one to open for me?
will there be one in that thousand?
That is my perfect description of my writing skills now. How long had it been since I last sat down and express myself through something creative?
I missed this part of the process, when I am beginning to suck my thumb like a little girl again when it suddenly struck me that I am stranded at the exact same part of the story where I decided to stop a few years back.
Not that I never attempted to get back to it. But it just gets frustrating when I really thought I now have found a different perspective to get past this part of the story I am writing.
Apparently, I now find myself in the very same spot. Same punctuation point. Same freaking episode of a stormy day. I need to give an ending to this soon. But I am missing characters and scenes.
It feels as though there is something blocking my imagination, that if only I get to see through it then everything would flow out smoothly – the words and all…
I am feeling a rush. I need to get the rest of the story out of me.