i spent the better half of today rereading the old fanfiction stories i wrote with furious and unrestrained gusto back in college, what i consider the peak of my creative writing days.
back then getting to read your stuff on the net and having them read by strangers was salvation. in that age of identity crisis, of family disillusionment, it was an intoxicating dance of recognition and of feeling known that saw me through my angstiest moments when the world didn't revolve around me as what i thought it should have rightfully, and all but naturally done. creating backstories to characters i loved, fleshing them out with context, it came easily to me because i loved them. loving them brought me insight into their plight, and an unabashed sincerity that transcended the limits of fiction and my own normally tight inhibitions.
now that i write copy for a living, i can't help but wonder if that girl i once was could still possibly be part of me now. my words feel stilted, groping for handholds that used to effortlessly appear out of thin air, pregnant with the magic that i feel i am losing. is she merely hiding, or has she changed so much that i can no longer recognize her?
she's inside me, somehow i know this to be true. but i guess while i am still far from wise, and still too awkward to be worldly, i am also far less angsty and now find it easier to share my love with the real people that populate my undeniably tangible surroundings.
is this the trade-off then? to have my words blocked by the fullness of life that i feel, to replace an old lifeboat that had me gasping with the effort of trying to prove that i was alive, with a rescue boat bearing the promise of a dry and safe land?
i ask in confusion, confronting another crisis: are you still here?
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