When an idea for a possible short story masterpiece enters my mind, my heart starts thumping fast; as though in hot pursuit of something fulfilling yet incredibly tantalizing. I seem to have an apt for following thoughts that flow like a river across an uncharted territory - one I can claim my own genius. Often, I'd escape reality and join the adventures of my own creation.
Ask me what they are, and I'd gladly paint them as extravagantly as I could. I will stutter. I will stop for a while. Then with apparent diligence, draw the gist out flat on the table sooner or later. My mind wanders in the virtual recesses of my cave-dwelling soul just to keep me amused with the stories it brings back to my consciousness. It tells it so well, I would have a hard time falling asleep at night, already itching to put them down on paper.
My imaginative introductory momentum, unfortunately, remains within the confines of my memory, unable to extend itself out any further. Perhaps, admittedly, I lack the skills in the creative writing sphere. My long awaiting queue of stories to write and tell are rusting even before they materialize for my eyes to reread and others to find inspiration from.
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