It’s the end. When it comes to this, there’s sparse room available between the lines and margins of what I’ve created. Although the work that’s been produced, turned out, and written into realistically fantastical stories, there’s both pride and regret that emanates from the depths of my soul. The effort has been on all sorts of varying wave lengths, shifting rapidly somedays from inspiration to what could be called as laziness – despite creativity flowing, even if it’s just a few drops at a time.
I’ve filled my library of my creations with twenty-nine more pieces than I’ve already had – with this one, thirty. It’s an incredible number in the span of a month; especially as an individual who’s regretfully boasted writer’s block for the past five or so years. The writing on which I’ve worked on was not created equally but is out there to exist for all to see.
So much has changed within these last four weeks. Whether or not my writing has subconsciously or directly had an influence over my actions and the decisions I’ve made to impact my real-world relationships is something I wonder now as I start to close the chapter on a long series of short stories filled to the brim with prose – oh prose, my love. The consequences are very much alive – not necessarily in a bad way, either.
It’s been a fulfilling journey of self-discovery and drawing on inspirations within to sparking something within that I had thought I lost long ago; with the help of clever prompts, evoking more and more from me, stealing it all without a care. Despite the spaces that have filled so deeply for these thirty days, I find that the sheer amount of space that remains for the remainder of a lifetime speaks volumes.
And, as a writer, I must do my job to silence the void.