The last month or so, I’ve been trying to juggle life-stuff and writing, and blogging has slipped through the cracks.
Though I’ve technically surfaced from my self-imposed hibernation, the writer in me has gone into a cave again: all I want to do with the limited time I have on my hands these days is to write, edit, fix stories.
It is a peculiar thing, writing a story– it is being someone else, getting into their skins, thinking their thoughts. It is feeling the weight of their flesh on your own bones, the bloat in their stomachs from their heavy lunches, the dizziness from their alcohol or drug trips, their helplessness in the face of death, their joy at winning a race, the adrenalin coursing through your veins as much as theirs. So many lives wrapped up in the world of stories, and through them so much understanding of what success and failure, joy and hurt, giving and accepting, mean.
I’m loth to stir out and about. When out with others, I still have my eyes gazing inward, because of these many lives I’ve created within me and the constant reminder: to each I must give a voice, an existence.
Haven’t been blog-visiting these past months, not as much as I used to. I miss you all, sometimes, as if from within a torpor. Feel like I’ve fallen into an alternate universe, where imaginary people look more ‘real’ than the real and online people in my life.
I’m sure I’ll wake up from this drowsy-dreamlike world, but until I do, here’s a wave and a hug from my world spinning parallel to yours.
Have you ever had a similar experience of being in a faraway world of your imagination? Does reading or writing ever put you in this inward spiral? Do you write Inwards or Outwards?