Sunset at 18:23

…and it just went down

Why am I me with this conscience that doesn’t want to be? At least I think it doesn’t want to be, as it needs a constant reminder that it’s there, whether it wants to be there or not. It’s similar to having your head in the clouds (because reality is draining). You just don’t want to think or do anything, speak no word, react to nothing – just nothing. Creative introverts cannot handle the ordinary life cycle and yet they are caught in it. Everything and everyone has expectations of them.

Yesterday your conscience was that of a child’s and today you’re wondering whatever happened to it? It used to be more creative, angrier and more honest. It’s when you didn’t have control over your feelings. Now that you have control, it seems like you’re letting your creativity grow up by paying rent and bills, which constitutes responsibility. And isn’t responsibility supposed to bring stability and make you a decent human being? Yes, all’s good, except that one morning you will look at yourself in the mirror and wonder whether you’ve ever created anything that mattered to people. So what do you do? You spend ten years writing something that turns out to be Heart Like A Hole, you rack your brains over a short story that you named Silicon Dreams, because that’s the best you can come up with for now while the story isn’t really coming along. The idea is there, the set up is there, but what else? Can’t play God anymore? Well, of course not, because there is no God in fiction writing. The story is already there – you’re just figuring it out. It’s almost like a fucking game of chess or a puzzle. There are endless ways, moves and pieces – more than you can ever take. I’m not saying that what I create should matter to anyone unless they choose to. You don’t impose. That’d be selfish. Presenting your art is necessary, though. I remember my tutor used to say that writing (or art in general) is all about exposure and that’s what you want. Unlike others, I am not scared to expose anything. I’m only scared of not being able to express myself – especially before the sun goes down. It’s like there is never enough time to let everything out that needs expressing.

How do people become wise as life is happening? Do you have to grow old for that? What phase of adulthood am I in when I’m trying to find out when my life actually began? (I.e., the day I first made friends? The day I first left home? The day I started at university?) Life, in fact, begins every day. I’m probably at a stage where I am settling down and working to become my own boss. There is still a lot to do, but I don’t think it’s a midlife crisis just yet. My conscience just wants to escape me, because I’m not paying attention to its creative abilities. It will eventually die if I don’t let it work on stories. Talented people don’t lose their abilities. But I am not talented. If I stop, I’ll lose everything. Got to do everything before the sun goes down…

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