a lot of the people from my middle school know me for my writing.

i used to write. a lot. very well.

now i don't write a thing anymore, and people at high school have forgotten that renee p. writes either.

well, i tell you, it's not that i'm not writing because my ideas are subdued. it's because there's this one fervent idea that speaks tumultuously to me, like a fresh breath mixed with drowning. people who have ideas such as these know these ideas can burns holes in paper. but i can't put the idea down. it almost has a life of its own, like an animal in a cage that shrinks away from me whenever i try to surface it. i try weaving a beautiful story from this idea, and all that i spit out are tragic narrations and letters that make me, the author of these letters, cry when i find them months later. these letters are of a horrible, tragic love that i have never even experienced before, and i cry as if these letters are from the narrator, not from me. this idea is nearly eating me alive, and the problem is, i'm afraid this idea will become my existence and reality. it sounds frightening and creepy, but i'm not joking.