Posted: Sun Jun 12, 2011 9:54 pm
Well I feel like today I need to rant. Just feel like talking to someone other than myself. I have always wanted to tell a story. As a child I was really good at lying, and coming up with tall tales. When me and my friends would play they would always ask me to come up with the setting of our make believe games.
Growing in years I like most started wondering why I was put here. I thought that I could possibly be anything, but what I settled on wanting to tell a story. I knew early on my own mortality due to my unusual, or maybe to usual child hood. This fear of death made it clear I had to leave a mark something to be remembered by. The thought I felt was that people who love you remembering you, was pointless. Reason being they would in turn die and you would be forgotten. I thought that if I did something extra ordinary I would forever be remembered, or at the very least what I had did would be left behind.
Time moves forward and while my desire to tell tales was forever growing stronger, my reason was changing. I didn’t create anymore to be remembered; I wanted my creations themselves to become remembered. Of course I started to realize my great ideas where in fact characters from shows I loved tossed into a blender, with my ideals and friends added in.
Truly frustrating part is to know you want to do something but not be able to actualize it. At my first college I fell in love with illustration. As many of you know by trade I am an artist. At first I was simply going to do art for others works. Anyone who would pay I would work for. However recently I have been having a strong desire to draw and tell my own story. At first I thought this would be through comics or visual novels.
Turns out none of the things I have tired have been what I wanted. Now when I say what I wanted I am not talking about what my logic, my head wants. The desire I am talking about is in my heart of hearts hidden until recently even from myself. My inner me the one I can’t lie to wants to do storybooks with lovely illustrations. Sounds great right? The outer me the one that is in control loathes this idea. I have always desired (I thought) to write for an older audience. Talk about being at war with one self. I feel the inner me is winning over the staunch older self.
It’s frustrating and at the same time calm has started drifting over my being. In a way it’s like how it should be. Am I afraid very much so. I always thought I had a big message that would change humanity, and in the end all I want to do is talk about normal happy life in a book.
Well that end’s my rant I guess I’ll go back to playing my part on these forums, but today I felt like being more true to me and not the lie known as the outward me.