Everytime I open my laptop I feel like opening a blank page and start writing. But when I open a blank page, I want to start writing but I don't really know what to write. Then moments ensue, I am still staring at the screen with no inspiration. I might wander... (What's new on Facebook?) But then, time is running out and I've got to do assignments. I've got to get moving and spit something out. I wasn't going to stop empty handed. I don't really feel too sure but I start typing anyway. And then some random crap comes out and formulates. From an empty piece of nothing, something goes forth and explodes and suddenly, there is colour on the canvas of my mind and it fills up with pictures and sounds and images until a certain point of time, fatigue seeps into my mind and I slow down. My eyes start aching and I think like soft jelly. Then, I need a nap.
What a weak will, a crumbling constitution you have, remarked a character in my nap. I swatted the thought away like a fly buzzing in the sky. But just like a bug, it persists to be annoying. "You, who have insisted for our appearence, suddenly have the balls to call us off?" a minor character whines. I frown in my sleep. I think it away, but it comes back again, louder than ever. It boomed, "You wake up, and write our story now! The characters are all ready, lined up in a row. The plot, the story, is about to unravel." They dragged me up by the arms and drop me haphazardly onto a chair. There was a stage, in the middle of no where. They curtains swayed and slid away. And thus a play started.
It was dark and dramatic and full of wonder. I am breathless as I saw the scenes change. I was flowers come out of fires. I saw a death, a gamble, a race. I saw characters that touch my heart and people that I would remember forever. I remember laughing and crying and enjoying myself, that I never wanted to stop. Oh, it was a great story, such a great story, like I've never heard before. Oh gosh it would be so wonderful if I could take it and keep it and show it to the world. Like a bright spark in the barren land of imagination, the whole world be set aflame because of it. And I saw myself leading the way, revelling in the fantasy, the story, the enchantment. The show has ended thus I eagerly walked away to write it. And to write all about it.
Then in my slumber I turned over, and snuggled into my pillow. And in a moment I'd have forgotten, and thus it's a dreamless, life giving sleep. And on the edges I hear them chatter angrily, complaining. "How useless it was to perform to him. Look at him, he doesn't even remember the story let alone write it. It looks like we have to find some other writer again."
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