I've been itching to get back into fiction this summer - I have tons of story concepts unearthing themselves in my mind everyday, but I haven't quite made it a priority to lock myself in front of a computer to write. Among other things, I just don't have time. Today I took some time, however, to write an original fiction piece entitled "Brandon Bruno, 1984 - 2063." It was my fictional obituary.
As an exercise, I was intending to use it as a guidepost: when I die, what would my obituary read, and am I thus far on a path to accomplish all the goals laid out in my obituary? Weird thing is, after I wrote it up, I stopped, selected all the text, and deleted my entire manuscript. Was the concept too morbid for me, or did it feel like a bullshit exercise; too constraining and limiting for my future plans?
I'm not quite sure yet, but something about my future seems unsettling, incomplete, and worrisome. In other words, I don't want to think about my future, I want to think about my past... and that might just be at the heart of my current slump. I'm not sure which is worse: that no one understands me or that I don't want anyone to understand me.
Out.
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