I used to write so much that my fingers would ache at the constant tapping of my keyboard. I would weave stories that were pages long and even though they probably weren’t worth a damn, I still found a sense of pride in them. I didn’t try so hard to make a monumental difference in what I would write about, I just wanted to express myself through veiled perceptions of characters, have them live the lives that I would wish to live if I were more impulsive. Id personas, coated in the paint of metaphors, teeming with life that would jump out of the page and back into my imagination. I need practice.