February 19th, 2008


I wish there was a muse I could blame

... for the fact that I'm simply unable to write. But no, it's probably just me.

I was looking for a file today on my hard drive. What I stumbled across, though, was some original fiction I've written about two years ago.
Honestly, whenever people told me that they don't remember stuff they're written, I would just laugh because I couldn't believe how you could forget about lines you put your heart into.

But reading this one page today gave me the creeps. I know this is going to sound very conceited but:
Oh my god, what awesome stuff did my mind produce those days?
I could remember the whole concept I had and some minor details - but the quality of these sentences which I don't remember at all amazes me. There are images I built, a lot of sarcasm and a deep sadness depressing the whole atmosphere. All that reminds me of one of my favorite books - which I didn't read before I wrote that stuff, btw.

What saddens me is that I'm not even going to try to go on writing. I still know what I wanted to make out of that story and I still know the end that is already written in my head.
But somehow I couldn't fill the pages in between because I lost my creativity - but, well, nice to know that there's actually been a time that it was there.
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