Langst: One Shots

The End of the Beginning.

((Please be patient my lovelies, as I am only testing my wings after being down so long. <3 <3))
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The deep aching, not quite a pain but an ache that comes from within and drags your entire being with it.

Do something.
You know you need to eventually.

Start that thing.
Otherwise you'll never hear the end of it.

But at the thought of doing anything, that dull aching accompanied by the hammering in the chest. Making your head feel like it's a thousand pounds.

Lance lay on his side on his bed, eyes grazing lazily over the comments on his phone. Anything but what he should be.

Kik.
Instagram.
Messages.
YouTube.

Oh wait I heard about that new app, let's go check that out for like two minutes and then delete it...

Explore pages that suck you into your phone. Deals that take you out of society.

Don't get him wrong he did more than just stare at a device for hours in end. He was in his senior year of high school.

Sure, he was on leave of absence at work but there were still things that kept him busy.

Things his mind told him were at the forefront of his mind.

Creative writing was the beginning.

The beginning of what felt like the end.

He was a writer.
...right?

Lance could recall starting his Creative Writing class full of vigor and excitement to expand the hobby and talent he adored.

Writing was his passion.

School started in August.

By October, he could barely write five hundred words, he'd lose it. He couldn't.

As a write you must be able to take criticism, take the fact that not everyone is going to like what you do and that there are flaws.

But this was a simple high school class...

A simple class were the teacher was so intimidating as a writer that you had to lie to her about the context behind the work.

'Have you ever been through this?' She had sounded so accusing, and he was already so close to tears he might break.

The first lie in that class. "No."

'Yeah, well it shows.'

That was the beginning of the end.

The end of his passion for writing.

All because of some measly teacher.

Lance could recall laying for months with ideas in his head, and now he just lay with ideas in his head and and empty heart.

The motivation was gone no matter how hard he tried to grasp for it and it hurt.

He missed his readers kind words, he missed their thanks and how he could inspire others because that's all he wanted.

Lance wanted to help somebody.
Have you ever been through this?

That's what she had asked, and Lance asks this now.

Have you had your hobbies so belittled that you lose the passion to create what once loved to do?

Drawing became writing.

Writing is... now what?

Did you ever sit for hours in bed knowing you had all the time in the world, but that ache inside followed by the weighed down head, leaves you unable to do it?

Here he was.

Lance knew that the greatest way to come up with a story is to take what you feel and put it down.

He'd made a half hearted attempt at writing to get back in the groove.

But he knew it was horrible.

He couldn't leave them with that.

The ones who loved him and loved what he created: how could he do that to them?

Before Lance knew it his finger were flying across a keyboard and he was focused and he could understand and he was aware.

Maybe the motivation, the passion, would take a little while to come back.

He needed time to stretch his wings before he dove back into it and hoped to one day soar again.

Hoped they would love him.

Lance would come up one day and he would be who he use to be, things would be good again.

Why should he let others get him down for what he loved?

Not any longer.

This is no longer the beginning of the end.

This is ripping out the last few pages where the story got dark and rewriting something fresher and newer and better.

This was the end of the beginning.

And now...

Well...

The climax is when things pick up and get interesting, now isn't it?