Ideas

Author’s Note:

So, my first try at writing something on here. I just hope it’s good or at least decent, and constructive criticism is always allowed and encouraged for my stories on here. I don’t know what you’d call this one; a Creative Nonfiction piece, a reflection, a short short story, I’ll let you decide. That being said, I’ll just hop right into it.

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Ideas by Mr. E

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Ideas are a fickle thing. They seem to be random, and come from the strangest of places.

That can be applied to a brunette, lying in bed. He has a fan going on behind him, some radio feedback, and a fresh sheet of snow lies in drifts outside. He lies in bed, always wondering, never sleeping when he should. He fosses and turns incessantly, wondering if he’ll ever be good enough to put them to use.

A quick glance at a digital clock radio confirms that he has indeed, not slept. It’s been thirty minutes, and he is no more tired than he was when he told his parents he was heading off to sleep.

He sighs, the darkness obscuring his fair face a bit. A quick all around him, outlets for his ideas lie. He could jot it down in a notebook that he can get easily from a bookshelf, he could head over to Wattpad and write his stories on his iPad, or he could mark a reminder on his phone.

The ideas circle relentlessly in his head, never letting up, never letting him down. However, he never utilizes them, for fear.

He fears criticism that would assail him without telling him how to improve. He fears a low number of readers checking in on them, too low for anyone to make significance out of the readers themselves. He fears that his subpar writing skill won’t truly magnify what those stories mean to him.

With a labored sigh, he turns over and jots down the ideas in his personal notebook that grows consistently with every night. The pages are filled with these ideas that will never be used, never see the light of day.

He tosses his blankets over himself, knowing full well that the notebook only exists to satiate his mind’s desires. It will never have any true meaning, that those ideas will never see the light of day.

So, he goes to sleep restlessly, waiting for the day when he’ll finally gain the confidence to utilize all his ideas.

So they wait, wait for the dawn to break. His ideas are fickle things, constantly changing, but never truly living.

Nor will they ever truly live.