imaginary friends.

writers are the people who don’t let there imaginary friends die. i wrote that in a challenge a bit ago. i guess i started writing when i was eleven. it’s embarassing i see so many who started when they were four, five. the minute they knew what pencil was created for. i started writing because it was my way of running away. i couldn’t run away. i wouldn’t make in very far. besides “a place can’t take away your problems,” i read that on a tee-shirt or was on bathroom wall? i can’t remember anyway. writing helped me cope with loneliness, when i was too awkward for friends. when people found me repulsive, when i had problems that i didn’t feel i could talk about. i was never a diary type of girl. i couldn’t write about my day to day life that would just be depressing. i couldn’t write about my day to day problems that would just be stupid. i mean i tried to be after a while i’d look through them and realize that never came far. never really rose above the problems it didn’t help me it just depressed me. so my writing became my diary it was a way to tell my story without being so blunt, without anyone catching a glimspe of it and thinking that i was the problem child. that i was crazy, that i had issues which all may very well be true. it was without the frills of saying dear diary today i cried on the bathroom floor. i was much too old for imaginary friends but somehow i couldn’t let them die they had seemed to hold my hand on stormy nights. they had been the only constant friend i had that couldn’t die, or grow tired of me. i’m not trying to sound deep the fact is i’m really quite very shallow. but when it comes to writing i feel like my heroines understand me. i know i created them so they should, but quite frankly i feel like as i create them they come alive. i wish life was like writing a book. i guess there would alot of backspacing and erasing but at the end of the day it would be creative, it would mean that with the mark of a word with the tilt of a pen life could change life could expand and dissipate. you wouldn’t be afraid to step out and speak what was on your mind. there wouldn’t be repressed feelings that weighed on your heart like a 100 pound weight that you had to lug around. i guess what i’m saying is that writing has helped me accept that life is crazy and unexpected. it’s helped me see that you can’t take back things said or done like we wish to. wow i just looked up and realized i’m at 500 words in less than five min. i guess it’s clear that writing helps and that i ramble endlessly.

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