Writing, huh. Every day I see amazing posts, especially on The Coffelicious. With some (serious) luck, on March 2016 I became one of their writers with my first post, a fiction story titled ‘The Certain Thing in Life’. The story wasn’t much but I’m still grateful that I made it through the publication.

I read all the stories there and other places on Medium. When I was in high school, I have all these buzzing ideas waiting to be written, to be explored, to be brought out of my head. Back then I was quite similar with Peter from The Ringmaster’s Daughter by Jostein Gaarder. A whole new realm. Races with powers. Murders. Mayhem. Unrequited love. Forbidden love. Nobles and assassins. Ancient beings. Holy lands. Everything. My head was filled with the never-ending fictional stories overlapping each other trying to get my undivided attention. Hell, I even drew some illustrations about them.

My favorite ones were my earliest project, the idea was stuck with me since I was in middle school. I called it ‘Crimson Moon’. The idea was about a group of assassins with a fallen heavenly being as their leader. Set in a fictional world, I even develop an elaborate backstory for each of the assassins (about 8), their illustration, the ground, the monarch, the races (about 5 races, complete with their history, land, powers, so on and so forth). It’s probably one of my most developed stories.

The other one is an abandoned project of me and a friend. We wrote about the zodiacs who are cursed to take form of an earthly being. The zodiacs are immortals, but somehow the magic that binds them forced these spirits to kill each other, and each time they are resurrected only to kill each others again. They are tired of doing these for centuries, but have no way to break the curse.

There used to be more stories, sagas, legends inside my head. But it seemed like all of them were shut instantly, leaving only breadcrumb trails inside my head. They aren’t alive inside my head like they used to be. They don’t seek my attention like they used to be. Suddenly my head is empty and I feel this big deep gap in my heart (or my head) where these stories used to be.

However, every time I sit down with my laptop on the desk or notes and pens in my hand, I can’t bring the stories to words. My thought works twice as fast as my hand, and by the time my hand finished writing a sentence, the story in my mind already jumped to the next chapter. Even if I could slow my thoughts down, I couldn’t get the words to flow. It would come out as a forced story with cancerous English (usually I write in English instead of my native language). It’s frustrating.

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