Where have all the stories gone?

All my life I felt sort of different from other people. I was a separate, floating entity, occasionally finding a brethren spirit to cling to. I felt this way because I was always writing in my head, as long as I can remember. I wrote other stories that explained things to me, and fulfilled my inexplicable curiosity in the mundane. When I ran out, I wanted more.

I wanted to write and know every story for every person. I knew the details were tucked away somewhere. I was the only person wondering. That made me feel different, but I liked it. I wanted to know, despite the consequences. I was the only person asking: surely that entitled me to the knowledge?

Now I've finally gone and finished a story. My ideas gelled at last. The beautiful thing sits in a glorious diamond case, in my mind and on my computer.

All my stories came out with that book.

Something happened. I'm not myself anymore. All of the tales have vanished. Before, I slept to the sound of character's whispers. I dreamt easily, lulling myself with my stories. Now, I dread the pillow. Electric buzz echoes in my head.

I feel alone. I'm lonely. Where has my company gone? I sit here alone for the first time in years and years.

Without the stories I am alone. There is not poetry, drawing, or music that soothes me. It echoes in that abyss, the Pandora's Box I kept secret from all the world, the space where my identity evolved.

Am I clear? Do I make sense? Or is my sensical side the cause of all this? Have I outgrown the self-composed legends?

My stories defined me. Now, they're gone, slipped away to that place where my heart flies.

Where do you find a dream?


Well, it's a true story. And it really is freaking me out.

P.S. You have NO idea how interesting holidays are around my house! If/When I ever get out an autobiography, I'll tell y'all what it's named so you can have a good incredulous laugh.