It's not that I haven't had anything to say. I haven't been avoiding. I haven't been ignoring. It's just been weird and stressful time. I know that I have the creativeness to develop in the storytelling world. I have the dreams to succeed or at least enjoy permanently vacationing in a literary universe. But what the hell stops me? All my favorite authors, both independent and professionally published alike, have of course succeeded to hurdle over the obstacles that writing a story/book usually provides. I'm not trying to be the next "Them". Who knows what I could be capable of. But I'm fed up with this completely unlife-like existence. I don't want to go out and travel the world (well, I do sorta want to but right now just USA), sleep with thousands of people, dance my nights away at the most trendiest clubs... I know some wish for some sort of life that's exciting and gives one the most salacious bragging rights. But I don't just want to stick myself in my room and waste away. I'm trying to find what this rut is that I am in, lace it with some nasty c4, and blow the sucker into another dimension. Just any place outside my room... A bedroom should just be what it's suppose to be built for, to be bedded in... Only! I got the imagination. I see it everywhere I go. I can look at the most simplest of objects and imagine a story from it... Modern day Scheherazade... Well, slight version of her!
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