Writing. My dearest love. I find writing an irresistible act, to feel the words form in my mind and pour upon the page without me ever thinking about it, it’s amazing. I am given the chance to say what I feel and think without anyone judging. And when I release my thoughts in such a way, nothing can prevent me from it. Except the horribly, dreaded, feared Writers Block.
I sit, with a pen and paper, waiting for inspiration to strike. I wait- and wait- and wait. C’mon inspiration, I think, Anytime now, really don’t waste any time. And still my page is vacant and unfilled.
Then I try laying down. I close my eyes and behind my lids I see myself. I’m standing on the top of a magnificent waterfall. I can barely make out the surface of the awaiting water through the wispy mist. But from what I could see it looked so peaceful. So serene. There was the modest pool of shimmering water at the foot of the fall. It contained, what seemed like, the most beautiful creatures in all the world. The widest variety of mythical creatures awaited me. Nymphs, naiads, Fey, mermaids. They were calling to me. Not in English, not even out loud. It was as if I could hear them in my thoughts. They’re voices were pulling me closer and closer to the plunge. Standing right on the edge I realized this wasn’t natural. It had to be a dream, but it didn’t feel like just some altered reality made by my imagination. No, it was as if this was reality but not my reality. A different world, a different realm. I didn’t belong… there was no reason for me to be in such a place. Unless… I was prey. I peered over the edge again but when I focused I saw a very different scene. The water was dark and musty, with the most vile, disturbing monster slithering upon the surface. The beautiful mythological beings had sharp canines with blood dripping from them; their eyes were filled with famine and desire. Everything had changed, everything but the pull on my soul to jump off the cliff. But it was much stronger now. Almost impossible to resist. But I knew, if I journeyed down that waterfall, I had no possibility of returning to reality, the one I belonged in. That is, if I even had a chance now. Think, my mind screamed, how can you fight it! Suddenly my memory recalled me back to a book I read a few months ago. I had found it in my Nana’s attic right after she passed away. It was much to old to even read the title, though I think it was in a foreign language anyway. In it I found a letter, stained and old, but still legible. It told of a world where mortals were dragged from the sub consciousness to be prey of syrens and other disgusting creatures. The beings fed on the souls, thoughts, and desires of the victim. But the very few survivors told that thinking and focusing on what they loved helped them make resistance of the pull and break it.
Okay. Think of things I love. My friends, my family, my writing. But the pull was still as strong as ever. Too vague, my mind said. Casey, Noah, Harley, Sierra. Momma, Daddy, even Peter. The freedom to write what I feel and not be afraid of criticism. The temptation weakened slightly. More, I thought. I would miss my intellectual but totally pointless conversations with Casey, sharing my secrets to Noah, my performances with Harley, and my completely hilarious games in the woods with Sierra. I would miss how Momma and I watched TV together every day, and how Daddy and I got into heated debates on a daily basis, I would somehow even miss Peter’s constant annoyance to play with him.
It broke the string. The hold that the creatures help me by snapped. I was free.
I awoke, startled and cold. Sweat was pouring down me but I smiled. I finally had the perfect story.