i used to be so smart
last night, after my mad colloquium preparation session, i
rummaged through some papers to find something of the past
to read before i went to sleep. i took this spiral notebook
out and read a story i vaguely remember writing. when i was
16. it was dark, and perverse, on all levels. there were
many characters. i was, aside from the slightly embarassing
goth references, astounded. i was such an amazing writer. it
was mostly totally fictional, and i havent a clue how i did
it. the characters were so intricaley developed- the writing
vivid and precise. the sex scences sparsely written but
highly erotic. it was almost the whole notebook, and i was
so captivated that i had to read it all. i got totally lost,
it very much had that fictional dream feeling. and i wrote
about things there were no way i could know about. a
shrooming scence, written years before i ever shroomed,
about sand separating from underneath your body and stars
reaching out for you. how could i know?
it made me sad reading it, i havent written anything that
good in years. stories to get lost in.
am i trying to hard? will it ever come back?