The Not-So-Distant Past

As much as I would love to say that I have always been one of those people that are deeply touched by everything they see and can be inspired by everything and anything… It just isn’t true.
Perhaps it was lying dormant for my first 13 or so years, or maybe I was these things, but simply on a subconscious level. I really don’t know. The first time I really recall being truly inspired or compelled to do something was a few years ago, maybe three or four. I don’t know. I had just become so bothered by the things around me, I think. By the inadequacy of my existence and pursuits and by the destructive society I was seeing around me.
So one night, when I couldn't sleep, I just began writing. It wasn’t much – hardly worth mention, really, and I honestly didn’t even know what the heck it was. Until somebody called it “poetry”.
I’m rather ashamed to admit that up until that point, I had hated poetry with every fiber of my being. When I thought about poetry some of the first things to pop into my head were those stupid hallmark cards and the corny nursery rhymes for little kids. Neither one was particularly appealing to me.
After my first few tries with this, though, before I even knew what it was, my interest was sparked. I decided that I liked it. It made sense. I loved that I could write something meaningful to myself; relevant to MY thoughts and MY feelings and MY struggles. Connected to my new pursuit to get more out of life and to do more about life.
Since then I’ve contracted (it almost sounds like a disease) an intense urge to write and it has become my passion. It has become the direction I want to take. And when I’m writing, I don’t feel like I should be doing something else; it feels like the only thing I should be or can be doing. The best part being that I can mold myself from the pieces and sift through myself to find where I should be as a human being.