bouncingpaperwad

I have a lot of stories in my head. They hover around, fill my dreams and nightmares, they distract me during the day, and keep me up at night. They are all good friends of mine. I grew up with each of them, raised them with my pets, grew them in the garden, spent my summers in their company. The older I get the bigger they are. They keep gaining detail; and now what used to be gentle wisps of plot are now huge clouds of narrative hanging around my head. They're heavy, hard to ignore, and there are just so many of them! I need them out of my head. I feel like a parent with adult children still living in the house. I love you, but it's time for you to leave! At the same time, I'm scared for them to go out there all alone. I'm scared about what the world might do to them. Take them, twist them into something horrible, and try to pass it off as their own work. Kidnap them and add them to something else. Chop them up into pieces and scatter them about. Criticize them, ridicule them, turn them into a laughing stock. Or else, ignore them completely. Nobody has ever liked my writing. So I keep it all to myself and share it with no one. My stories will just keep growing. I hope no one is around when my head explodes from holding them in for too long. It'll be quite the mess.