Mind, Restless, Tired

There's been a story in my head for more than a year now. It has crept into crevices of my mind, stayed there, almost parasitic. It saps, whatever it is that doesn't make it dissipate from me, and grows. There are limbs, facial features, that continue to protrude from it, as it rests in my mind. But still it looks like an aberration, totally malformed. And I, the forced sculptor has to mold and make it less of a phantom. Soon, it is done, the sculpting is complete, yet there are hole, tiny and large, that need to be filled.And the story keeps plaguing for its completion, for its holes to be filled. In the most unusual places, it comes to mind. In class, with the boring professor teaching that dreaded chemystery, it emerges. Though this time it is redeeming as it takes me away from my class. I continue to stare at the professor, my eyes partially blind to the formulas on the board and my ears hearing words that sound like that of a seceding crowd. In the absence of my mind, the story reveals itself; its limbs-the corners of the stories, it's features-the complexities and connections of characters. And then I know I must write it, do it and myself a favor. But when I finally did see it on my laptop screen, it looked even more malformed. It appeared like those Asian gods with many arms stretching and curling out of their straight bodies. I did not know how to handle all those corners, flash backs and complexities.It was more than 25 pages (not double spaced, or edited) and I felt it was a mash up. But that was during the summer, now winter approaches, if not already here and I'm writing all over again. It seems to be going alright. This time, there are no flash backs, no corners yet, just starting the story in all its simplicity; just from the beginning. It takes a lot of maturity to write a book, not to mention starting from the end to beginning.

I was disappointed, yesterday, to find out what it meant to be a free thinker. The meaning contrasted with what I had always thought it was. Did I or I did not perceive it to mean one who was free spirited and thought out of the box and even what is deemed reality. But its actual meaning, to me, steals from it what it sounds like. Though the free thinker, by its dictionary definition, thinks outside the norm or tradition, I still feel that his focus on science and logic steals from him, much of his free-ness.

Why do I feel this way towards science- humanity's way of reaching new frontiers. It is too logical, too rigid for me, I've never felt I can contribute to the world through science.

I saw a play yesterday and in the end when all the actors, removed from their characters, took their bows, I felt lifted, inspired. I wanted to act, even though the only time I ever did was in high school. After my first play, I got reactions of both surprise and mockery. Both reactions made me feel good. Still, I want to be a writer! (it should be known) and I cannot imagine my life without exploring these things. Scary, scary images.