I remember when I used to be able to fire off at least one fanfic per thread, frequently two or more. Now I write

You

followed by a space and immediately give up. My creative bone has shriveled entirely. I am a prisoner to my own mind.


You remember when you used to be able to fire off at least one fanfic per thread, frequently two or more. Now you write “You” followed by a space and immediately give up. Even that is a tremendous amount of effort that borders on extremely exhaustive exertion. You ponder where all the drive came from – surely if you just reignite the spark once more, the text will flow like a river getting unclogged as a dam is broken. What was it about Kronii that drew you in? What was it that you wanted to paint on this Yotsuba B themed canvas with words?
Your creative bone has shriveled entirely. It seems funny to you that creativity is supposed to be a bone anyway; we know enough about human anatomy to know that the brain is not a bone, yet we call it a creative bone anyway. You observe the dissonance between the concept and the name for it. Kronii would have found a way to put an entertaining doomer spin on it. You can’t. Your mind shoots blanks like your puddles of white liquid are devoid of semen. Does that mean that you want to become Kronii? Is that the solution?
You are a prisoner to your own mind – and you don’t take visitors. It’s just you in your mind. In your desperate search to find that which you have lost, you fail to let the visitors in. Let them in. Open the door. Stop having it be closed. You have lost nothing. The drive is still there. But you’re cutting off the circulation. Let the lifeblood of writing in. Experience things. Consume random occurrences like your mind is a starving kid in Africa. Devour everything your eyes process.
An anon made a stupid post. Yet you’re drawing a blank. Past you would’ve had no trouble turning even the most asinine of posts into a wild three-thousand word ride. But current you is staring at this post, its tantalizing banality tormenting the creative bone inside your pink head blob that is supposed to do the big thinkies. It’s not doing the big thinkies because it’s out of fuel.

You innately understand your struggle. Everything makes sense, adds up and checks out. It feels like such a rush. You punch sentences into your keyboard, frantically trying to keep up with what’s sprawling out of your brain before you lose your train of thought as you spend too much time contemplating what the next words, next phrase, next sentence should look like. At last, you arrive at the conclusion. Everything that ever was, currently is and ever will be has already been said. You just need to be the one to pick it out of there… and say it. As if struck by divine inspiration, you find the one true expression of man. It is just one word. Nothing else needs to be said. You inhale deeply, steel your throat muscles and yell at the top of your lungs:
“SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEX”

The police arrive. They arrest you for noise pollution. You did not think this one through. At least you can be a prisoner outside your own mind now.


I love you. One day I WILL return.


Remember to hit the bong and play chess, bro.

Edit Report
Pub: 05 Nov 2021 08:28 UTC
Views: 68