Too many words in my head. Too many stories to tell. Too many words. Too many plots. Too many tales. Assaulting my senses. Screaming at me in defiant. "Me!", they each scream. "Me! Pick me!" "Tell my story! Elaborate my past. Breathe life into me. Bring me into this world." Too many.
They scream out their cries of anguish at me during the dead of the night. They kept me up with their presence in my head. "Write us down. Don't let us die. Rescue us from within this enclosed fortress of your mind. Your imagination. Release us."
"But there's too many of you! I can't pick! I can't choose! I don't know what or whom to save!" "Should I save you, drowning girl? Should I choose you, tales of subjugation and oppression? Should I pick you, gremlin beneath the cellar? Whom? Which? Tell me! Tell me!"
"All of us and none of us. We are yours to rescue. Yours to give life to. We are but creatures spun from your soul. Your insatiable desire to be a taleweaver. We are nothing. We are everything. We are the core of your being. The reason you are you. We are you. We are your imagination, your eternal captives."
I don't really do a lot of free-styling. Because when I do, the results of that free-styling is more often then not- is disturbing to me. Love it? Hate it? Feel the need to direct the Constantly Dramatic One to the nearest psych ward? Whatever rocks your boat. Just let me know.
Also haters, this is the best moment for y'all to make an appearance. If it's too difficult for you, then let me start it off for you:
"OMG!! This suck so much!!!! You can't write. You're stupid!! And FAT. FAT FAT FAT!!!!"
See, I'm helping you out here. Return the favour ya?