An update, 7 years later.

I honestly thought about deleting this account. It makes me uncomfortable, reading these words that all seem foreign to me now. It pains me to look back at my immaturity, to remember my fleeting obsessions, to think about all the time I wasted writing stories I now recognize as excruciatingly bad. It's unsettling, glossing over these words that once seemed so meaningful.

But I also feel a strange sense of nostalgia, marveling at the fantasy world I lived in back then. And I wonder: do I still have those dreams inside of me? Am I so fully invested in the "real world" that I have lost the imagination that enabled me to happily type away for hours? Back then, I might have been immature and my writing might have been terrible, but I can't help but to acknowledge that there was some spark of creativity involved.

It's tough, dealing with the "real world." Like most of everyone else, I can only make it up as I go along. Every day I'm terrified of screwing everything up with my bumbling. It's much easier to block everything out and retreat into fantastic worlds so much more interesting than my own.

In some sense then, I really haven't changed at all. The settings have changed. The characters have changed. My dreams stay the same.

Maybe someday I'll rediscover that courage to once again put pen to paper.