Tree of Inspiration | Teen Ink

Tree of Inspiration

December 9, 2013
By Marcus0442 BRONZE, Gorfinerf, Other
Marcus0442 BRONZE, Gorfinerf, Other
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

A lake laden with glass glistens in an autumn sunset. Trees burn with specks of orange and red, and the cool winds scented of spice signify the seasonal change. Citizens walk along a lamp lit path, watching the sun descend beyond the horizon. As it does, it lets out its final long held breath and when the world succumbs to darkness a cool air brushes the innocent people into their homes. This is when he comes, the shadow that embarks on persistent quest to find scripture. Lurking thief-like in the darkness; hidden in the frothy plume of shadow that the light keeps secret. This heathen is me, and with the moon as my guiding light, I wander looking for a story.
The stars all tell a story of their own, but I am looking for a legend. With these whitened sheets held cozily together in a feeble coil, and the yellow stick of grey paint, it is nights like these that churn my creativity. A tale maybe mythological or a fact based solely on a shrub are hidden somewhere in the desolate dark. I am here to write of those shrubs. For I have a gift of sorts, one made for the books. Some are born to be artists, and some are born to be mechanics, others may become actors or explorers. But I am a writer.
At first it could have never been obvious. I would write all the time, maybe for class or for boredom. Most of the time though I would acquire the same sub-average grade or get little to no satisfaction from my product. Many times locked in combat with the clock I would write short stories or page long excerpts for books or novels. Every time I would find nothing of good use, and whenever I read my work, I felt failure. I would simply glare, unsatisfied with my work, until one day I would decide to never write again.
I transitioned from writing to drawing. When met with an apparent flare of distaste from my peers about my work, drawing was cut off. After that bitter failure I decided to do something that didn’t involve paper and pencil (since both options were pretty much scratched), and decided to start something more physical. So I started walking.
Now at first I will admit, I didn’t like it. It was hell on my feet and my legs and sometimes my back but the world… it was so beautiful. Trees etched upon hills in the distance, creating the sharp edges which would keep the sky from falling. Fields grown of gold grasses, and stocks of corn; the world was my inspiration. Being of a kidnapping age most of my wandering was pretty dangerous but nature taught me things, like where to run and how to disappear. Naturally the beauty grew on me, and the more I walked the further I fell for it. Suddenly, released from the prison that long tormented this piece of me, came the urge to write once more.
Just like that I decided to write once again. With the pencil and the paper I found my tale. I sat beneath the very story, and the tree became visible not only in my sight, but on the paper. From its roots that disturbed and warped the moistened soil to the plume of leaves above that acted as my shield from the sun. This tree bled, a sap of red and brown, it was my inspiration, and these details were meant to prove to me my great fate in writing. But they didn’t.
While writing I didn’t focus enough on the story, or so I thought, and what could have been a masterpiece was just another failed project. For a short moment I believed I may be able to bring back the poetic side of me, but no, I felt awful. None of my writing would ever be perfect, and so I decided to drop the idea from my mind entirely.
At home I was fumed. Enraged, I slammed the pad down on the coffee table in the living room and stormed off to my room, my sister and her friends a spectator to the whole event. I sit alone throwing my pencil at the wall, trying my best to bounce it from wall to wall, only to fail as I usually do. That’s when I heard a call for my name in the living room, it was only my sister’s voice but little did I know then that it was an angel calling to revive me of my torture.
Wandering to the living room once again to feel the tidal wave of embarrassment about to hit me, my sister just asks in mellow tone,” Did you write this?” she picks up the notebook. I reply drudgingly almost nauseous by the effect of my anxiety, and somehow behind the mutter she recognizes that I confirmed her suspicion. She was about to read something that I wrote, the worst story she’d ever read. I was wrong though.
She smiled at me, along with her friends, and told me it was nice. That was it, the fallout. Right there at that moment was the push I needed. Something from inside me glowed, warmth overtook me and I figured it out. I am a good writer. Maybe before I didn’t see it; my story was horrible but only to me. But maybe I decided that I shouldn’t be a writer before because I didn’t like my writing, but I never gave anyone else a chance to like it. All I needed from the beginning was the approval of someone other than me, whether it is my blood relative or my odd acquaintance.
Since that day I’ve been writing, almost on a daily basis. Sure I may never be the greatest writer ever, but that’s not what I’m looking for. I just write for the approval of people I know, and with that approval I feel like the greatest writer. Writing is my hobby, just as walking still is, and I’ll never let my own disapproval let me down again.



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