I have thought alot about writing but I always get destracted, thinking what if this isn't what I want it to be, so I do not write in my book, or on paper, or even yhink to write. But the more I try to escape all it does it follow me and I will write my book read classic novels and I am suddenly pulled in again, and I can't help it because I love it. The words of the great people that settle in my mind and sleep in my soul long after the book has been laid to rest on the night stand, and they pull me in and inspire me. And I can't escape these words, but I do not know if I want to. And when I write I am alone, and when I write I am at peace, and when I write I know i'm happy because nothing has ever made me happier. And I love the words that just express literature, and I quote "And now in the sunshine standing still, how beautiful! You are like all wood- flower, and bird, and butterfly, and green leaf, and frond, and little silky-haired monkey high up in the trees." -W.H Hudson, Green mansions. And these words are so beautiful and so different and most people would not understand literature and words spoken like this yet I do. And often I wonder when lost in my thoughts, is it such a burden to have a creative mind? Because often times I feel to much or I may cry harder because everything to me is beautiful and the world is mine when I see it in a more creative way, where I often end up painting my own picture of reality which I have come to find can be one of the most painful things to do. And I hate when everyone is looking at me funny because I understood the exert translated in old english just fine but they had no clue what it said, or when I say my absolute favorite book is Pygmalion and how much I love books writen by Jane Austen and classic tales written by Shakespeare, and they just look at me. And when picking books to read and everyone else has chosen books by children authors or "sex books" and I pick up Jane Eyre they all wonder what must be going through my mind and why would I choose such a title, they would wonder how I would even know of such books? And I walk alone to my table and I would read, and I would get lost in the book and forget what the others are saying, forget the insolence of them and how they insist on reading "childish books" while I am stuck in the mature pages of a classic, old english novel. And I forget the world, and I just read. Lost in the pages of the book and suddenly I am there and I am happy, and then I write and I am even more happy. And during those sweet simple moments I am myself, and I am finally at home in my own house, and the rest is just history, the rest is just peace.
-Nani
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