One of my favorite video games as a child was Lion King on Sega Genesis. I cannot remember whether or not the narrating character in the actual movie announces the beginning of the story, but on the first level of the game as little Simba begins the stage, a voice sounds the phrase. In hindsight, trying to save Simba from the pack of hyenas racing to trample him following his father’s murder (Level 4ish) is quite an emotional and dramatic concept for a child. At the time though, it was just a challenge of skill and I am sure my perception of the content is hopelessly warped by an expanse of time and the experience of life. The idealism, to be childlike again; to return to a state before the first realization of major disappointment.
I would not describe this ’start’ as an initial ’start’, yet I refuse to characterize it by the trite phrase, “new beginning.” Nevertheless, I had stopped long enough for this effort to be a ’start’ as opposed to a ‘continuation’. I used to blog, feverishly. I used to write daily. I am not sure if self containment chose me, or if I chose self containment. At an early age the approach became all consuming. Though social, liked, well behaved and able to aptly communicate, I closeted my emotions; only to allow them to slip out through the cracked door of my pen. In the darkness of my heart, the closet light would momentarily shine on my joys and sorrows. Words would dance with me, I stepping on its toes, until the cracked closet door was slammed shut that darkness might permeate and sleep might perform its work.
Ceasing to write has been conceit to a captive existence that has wreaked havoc on my productivity, personality and willingness to live. I cannot learn to live without writing and I have chosen life.
