2 Author

I am staring at the infiniteness of a blank page. The more I stare at it, the more I get confused, and lost. It is like staring down the deep dark old well. Or looking at a colorful painting hanging on the wall that ignites your thoughts, but there's no way you can describe how good that painting is. Every time I scramble letters to create words to sentences, everything just disappears. Gone like the wind.

I want to write.

I have always wanted to write stories, poems, anything.

I want to write a really good story. I want to write the most compelling, beautiful, and honest story anyone has ever written. I want that story to have an impact on people's lives to the point that they have to do something about it. I want my stories to make people feel that they are not alone in this world, and that they can be whoever they want to be.

I want to be able to produce love out of putting together simple words that make simple, intelligible, and relatable stories. I want people to feel, and embrace the power they hold for their individuality by writing about them. I want to make people feel how it feels like to get their happiest dreams and goals, even for a time, even if it means reading that immortalized on a piece of paper. I want to be able to have an effect on people through writing about stories that resonate.

I want to write that story.

Stories are like songs. They tell the past, and the present emotions. They even make you hope for the future. They give harmony and meaning to whatever you are going through. They give you sadness, happiness, inspiration, and life.

Read, write, inspire, a friend once said.

But it seems like I dont hold the power of a great storyteller. I keep staring on the blank page like a scared, hopeless piece of human being. I don't have the courage to draw out words that hopefully could change the world, or people, for that matter. I keep overthinking: What if I write awful things? What if no matter how I tried, I wouldnt be able to get it? What if I all I write is just pure nonsense?

I try to always fight the urge to overthink and demean myself, but human as I am, I tend to be insecure. I doubt myself. I question myself of my worth and my capabilities. I don't have enough confidence to just do what I want to do. I cower.

But sometimes I feel so inspired by the things that I can do. I think about the stories that I can write and it makes me want to write more. It fills me with so much hope that I tend to look past myself. It's the only way that I will be able to do something... anything amazing.

Writing clears my head. It points me to a direction. It enables me to create the kind of world that I want to imagine and live by. For a moment, it gives me a certain purpose to create a story with characters far from myself and my own failures. At some point, I make characters that expresses my whole true self. I write them like I am them, but I'm not.

I snap back to reality and realize that I have written a four-thousand-word short story. Unbelievably so, I finished something. I feel relieved. A faint smile draws on my face. I want to be happy for me although I know that it's far from perfect. I want to jump of happiness and brag about this simple achievement. I want to show the world that I am capable of creating something good for myself. I want to do alot more with this story blotted on pieces of paper.

But I cant. And I won't. Because I'm not who I think I am.

I am only an author of my own story, my own life.

Nothing more.