I remember writing when I was younger. My fingers would fly across the keys weaving words of pure gold. I felt such confidence in every piece of the world I was creating, it was beautiful. When people read my work they would smile and ask how someone that was only 15 years of age could make such an amazing story with such vivid scenes and lovable characters.

Now, only six years later everything has changed. I feel less like a poet and more like a murderer of the written word. What was once a fluid flow across a keyboard now feels like I'm swinging a hammer at the keys and desecrating the results. I cringe at the words I weave and fear that if anyone were to see the horrors I create they will laugh and tell me to quit.

In truth I envy my younger self, how confident he was, how he didn't fear failure. He would laugh at those that would tell him to quit. He would weave golden stories until he was satisfied. Now he cringes when trying to speak. He hides in the shadowed corners, hoping no one will find him, yet wishing someone would. Fearing companionship, but craving it all the same. Wishing for encouragement, but afraid to hear the words.

However there is one thing this fool has kept from his childhood. I'm stubborn and if I believe I can do something, I never quit. I never falter... at least as long as I have something to fight for, something to believe in.

I will write my stories, and hopefully I'll gain the courage to post them, I'm sure the content will be a bit... rough at first, but who knows? Maybe I'll find the golden stories I lost so long ago. Maybe I can find a piece of my younger self.