I heard the voice as I lay myself to sleep. It came with gentle ease and a soft purr that if I had focused my ears to the air conditionar running, I would have missed it.
Help me, please
I closed my eyes tight and scruntched up my nose.
"Who are you?" I asked, my words hanging in the air like dust in sunlight.
I’m not sure…I can show, but…help me
I felt myself escaping my body, felt my mind slip from it’s concious form until I was standing in a dazzling white light. I heard the soft song of a nightngale and, was that a river flowing? Yes, it had to be.
I read the first two pages of a Bentley Little novel and was greatly disturbed. Period.
I’ve been having strange conudrums involving vehicles. I’m starting to suspect I should start saving up for a car. For anyone whom has read The Great Gatsby, there’s a scene where all the characters get invloved in a switching of cars that inevitabily leads to a climatic ending. Something similair has been happening to me, none, thankfully, has involved such a dramatic effect as in The Great Gatsby, though it seems that my life could never go as simple as it appears to be.
There are so many stories in my mind. They’re each seperate with their unique touch like fingerprints. They call to me and I can’t stop thinking about them until I write them on paper. But when I do I have to escape from reality (Stephen King calls it writers sleep, I believe) because I have to choose to live the normal life I lead or completely submerse my self in my stories. This past week I feel as if i emerged myself from my story. Its a chemical feeling when you feel the impulse and actions these characters are taking right on your fingertips and the story between Katrina and Daemon captivated me so. I think its sounds strange; emerging from some fantasty world but that’s how I felt. I had to let the story go, its written, done and out waiting from readers. I want to go back to writers sleep but this past week I’ve been given new responsabilities. I have to force my mind on the tasks that are physically in my hands. I’m at a critical balance in my mind where its my decision to stay contempt where I am or to strive something better in my mind. And this promotion at work is not just handed to anyone. I’m scared but I don’t want to be told what to do anymore, I just can not function like that. It’s a critical battle between writers sleep and reality, you can’t half ass both. A psychology book I once read said that people can’t remember the crossing point from teenagehood and adulthood. I don’t think thats true. I remember it quite well and I continue to cross that bridge still.