Ever since April, my endless urge to rewrite my book was never resolved. I don't know. Every time I stared at the first page, labeled 'Chapter One', read the first couple of lines, I just cringed away like it was from Satan or something. I never had the guts to just get sucked back into that world again.
Sucked back into a world where there are magic and tyrants, blood and death, love and loss. All those things that are absent from reality. Sometimes I do wonder whether a creative mind is vulnerable to mental illness. A creative mind is an open mind. An open mind had the ability to imagine and through imagination, could illness sprout there? Like a fungus? Creeping, infiltrating?
I'm not sure and I don't dwell on it.
I even stopped reading for a while. Throughout 2010, I doubt I finished a book. My mind drew a blank every time I looked at a page of text. There were no magical worlds in a fantasy novel, just a griege page with black text. There were no absent minded serial killers in crime fiction, just pointless words on what used to be a tree.
But now, I've started reading again. I've started reading again like I used to. The words create pictures in mind, images, magic. There isn't text. There isn't paper. The characters are real people you learn to love and care about. The villains, you just love to hate. I find myself laughing. I find myself awake until five in morning, losing myself in fantasy, no thought for reality. Pangs of emotion float through my stomach, radiating from where the words touch my heart.
I've missed being able to read like that.
Now, I feel I can write again.
