Niques-The Awkward Black Vanilla

I remember when I first started writing the book I'm currently working on. It was in 2014 and I had awoken out of a dream with a brilliant idea. I was excited and that very same day I began writing in a copy book. I was writing for some days and researching some information based on my material, when I realized something very strange. I had become obsessed with my book. I don't know if other writers experience this but I literally could not put my book down, which began to affect my work life as a teacher and my social life. All I could think about was the concepts, the storyline, the characters and the world I was building. I preferred to write than to plan lessons. Every free time I got I was writing, my boyfriend at the time began to complain that I wasn't paying attention to him. And eventually after weeks of my life revolving around my book, I just put it away. Then I lost the book I was writing in. It's 2018 and I'm determined more than ever to finish writ...

I don't know what's worse, finding a major cause of your anxiety or realizing that's your anxiety is most likely going to get worse the more you create. Let me explain. Being a creative person is like living in your own world. People most times don't understand where your head is (because most times it's up in the clouds) and if you talk about your ideas, people think you're crazy or not normal or 'interesting'. Some people are even fascinated by your mind and even want to be in a relationship with you, but as flattering as that sounds, those people really don't  understand you, they are just infatuated by your creativity. So basically they are just fans, which is nice but isn't satisfying. Creatives especially writers tend to be introverts so needing people to be around us is not really of great importance to us. But those same humans that we prefer to be away from, are the same humans who have to read our work. This is it's own headache. ...

My tears, Drop like raindrops upon an abandoned house, My breath is empty. The ghost of my past hunt me, Pull me, Begging me to feel pleasures I once enjoyed. I remember how lucky I felt to be addicted to you. How full I felt, You came inside and filled that void, I though I needed you, You were ripped me apart, But somehow I confused pleasure with pain Screaming again and again for you to love me, Would someone love me? There are no happy endings when life is a circle, It always ends where it begins, A vicious cycle of stabbing pain and agony, Would someone help me? Why do I feel so alone surrounded by people who love me, Why don't you just go away? Leave me to my ignorance, Leave me to believe that everything in this world is lovely, Is awesome, Is wonderful. Would someone listen?