I thought about this this morning, because I couldn’t sleep and I needed to occupy my time.
I started thinking about past loves. Loves that were unrequited. Loves that could have been, but for some reason or other, died. I find myself thinking of these folk in the middle of the night, when everything is quiet, save for the train running in the background.
It feels….almost….abusive. And yet, abusive is too harsh a word. I tell myself that I am not allowed to think of these loves, because my perception is warped.
There are times where one malicious deed outnumbers a thousand good deeds. So why does my mind linger on these fantasies?
I then feel guilty. Like the guilt you feel about masturbating (something I wrote about in my novella). Or meeting someone for the first time and thinking of all the filthy things that must be done to that person.
I feel emotionally stunted, by a decade. It’s not like I can “cram” for a test where everything will be just fine, but I feel like I could have been much better off by now. It’s all part of the learning process, I suppose.
When I catch myself thinking these thoughts, smiling, moving hair from my face, rocking back and forth with nostalgia, I must be reminded that these are just memories. Or little scenarios I’ve made up in my mind. They should be dead to me. But why aren’t they?
Sometimes, I wish I weren’t a writer. It sucks having all of these collections of characters, events, dialogue stuffed in my head. It’s too much sometimes!