Today we were supposed to write a short story on the topic The best Christmas ever. I wrote a morbid story about how my brother took his own life on Christmas Eve by consuming a large dose of sleeping pills, after promising me that it would be ‘the best Christmas ever’. It was less than the requiem – by at least fifty words. I was supposed to write three hundred and fifty, see. I am beyond disappointed with myself.
The words used to come so easily; indeed, they practically flocked to me. But now they’re fleeing before me. I used to get a tingle of excitement every time I got an essay question – but now it’s turning into dread and despair.
The same storyline I use and reuse, it’s getting tired. And so am I. I need inspiration.
I used to be fluent in vocabulary. The words just appeared, and I just wove them into the fabric of the story. I picture my previous stories as vibrant, rich and intricate – pleasing to the eye and the touch.
But now it’s degraded: rough, tattered, scratchy sacks, neither pleasing nor satisfying.
I guess I took for granted my ability to write and create. I never considered myself a professional writer, just a student whose writing is able to please and satisfy the teachers well. And that was all I wanted. I took joy in writing. No, I never did write short stories just for the sake of it. I only wrote when I’m obliged to.
It’s odd, seeing as I only wrote because I had to, but now I find myself mourning the loss of ability to write. Words are important to me – and so is the ability to write, as I realise now; as I realise too late.
My English grades are balanced on the point of a knife.
I hope that I’m over-reacting about today’s incident. But I can’t deny the fact that I have been using the same storyline over and over again, just with some minor editions.
Writing has lost its colour and flavour. I want a different plot, I want inspiration. I want to write something that I am proud of. I want to write something that impresses myself. I can’t face myself – or anyone else – if I get anything below an A1 for English. I just barely made it this time.
please, someone. please help me.
The world looks dreary and grey today, hiding behind a constant, everlasting curtain of rain. The drops hammer at my window like moths to a flame. The rain wants to consume me today. The very air is cold around me; my fingers are numb, even under a sweater.
I am confused about family. I try to remain indifferent, but it’s getting challenging. My conscience is raging at me – it’s burning me slowly but surely.
I feel a barrier that I know I could shatter with just my words – but I choose not to. It feels safer, with that barrier separating family. I know I love them, but sometimes it’s just difficult. I used to be envious of other peoples’ families and now I still am, even though I know mine isn’t bad at all. I know I’m lucky to have this family, even.
But I’m still envious. I’m envious of others whose families are close. I’m envious of others who can treat their family as friends. I’m envious of others who can tell everything to their family.
To think that christmas is just three days away.
I feel depressed, and the weather laments with me.