I’ve had an idea for a piece of literature in my mind for over five years. It’s tormented me, but I’ve been wanting it to simmer and digest in my brain-juices forever. I want it to be perfect when I put pen together. Right now, it’s crying out. It’s all there, the cards are on the table and I have a Royal Flush or something. It’s the moment in which I write my masterpiece, the thing I’ve been dreaming of since I little little. It’s the dream we all chase, to be recognised or to become important or to at least try and win over the people who doubt us. Who day by day poke us with insults and instead insist on putting us down. I’ve had problems with bullying, depression and I have attempted to take my own life. That last one I swore I would never tell anyone, except well, times are a changing. I haven’t got much long in secondary education, and soon I’ll be unleashed upon the world. I want transparency and my personal history is a part of that, I thought of telling ‘my tale’ but I want to talk how friends talk – honest.
I have channelled all of my despairs, all of my fears, all of those insults into one great melting pot of that fundamental idea. It’s changed, morphed into something else I didn’t have from the beginning. It has symbolism, thematics, influences, modern day morals and a variety of other things fed deep into its core. There’s a strange wavy line when an idea becomes something more, it becomes a disease, but it becomes something which only you can hold. It’s genetic, exclusive to you and nobody else.
The idea I have of the literature piece, I’m going to keep it simmering. I know it’s not ready yet, I need to research deeper into the topic. I need to go further and further inside my own mind and see what other stories I have to tell, and weave them deep into my ‘masterpiece’. I’ve been dreaming of this since I put pen to paper, but I know it’s not ready yet.
Just thought I’d share that.