I used to write freely. To be more specific, I used to write unabashedly, about creative topics. Now what am I doing? My writing has forcefully been squished and molded to fit specific topics with specific structures and rules.
I used to write fantasy, or some far-fetched, outrageously fictitious story about spy escapades. And now, what do I write? Anything but that. It is no longer daydreams and dragons, it's about the human mind, reality, and grave topics I would never have understood or cared about.
But ultimately, is that something I should be sad about? I suppose not. I suppose I should be um, fortunate enough to have such an overly complex, contemplative mind, and that I should understand reality. But nevertheless, it is a bit sad, a bit sad to see those carefree, outrageous stories fade away. They were what set my writing career in motion, they were the beginning.
So perhaps it's reasonable to say that my brain has rusted a little--the childish part of it has rusted, or has simply been shed along with other various aspects of my life that I hardly ever utilize nowadays.
To be honest, I'm a bit afraid of how things are turning out for me and my writing. Where did the zeal, where did the unsurpassed creativity go? I feel afraid of losing what I started out with. What if it'll only hurt me? So I'm trying to spark creativity in myself again--what was it like writing years ago? I'm trying to remember.