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Is it true that the souls of those with unfinished business are doomed to reside here until that business is resolved? If so, I shall be doomed to an eternity on this desolate rock, left with no one to weep for me. As of now, I am in a sorry state. Unfinished work is stuffed into every nook and cranny of my room. Open a drawer, and find Chapter One (consisting of a single ragged paragraph) glaring out, making a mockery of its writer. Search the scrambled disorder of the closet, and find a fragment of a forgotten tale, pencil writing as faded as the idea it was born of.

The evidence is obvious; its the cause that evades me. Why can I not stay with a story to the end? I could be too preoccupied with the demands of every day life to put any effort into my work. But what are these distractions? Surely a world of magic and ocarinas, created by Nintendo, is not a more important undertaking than the worlds I create myself? How can I let something so frivolous take the place of my passion? I have a dream of becoming an author!

Then I wonder if it is something else entirely. Do I fear I am not skilled enough? It is true that I lack experience in life and love. Every author I have ever read about has traveled the world, or at least has seen much more of it than I have. I know this seems a needless worry, for I am young. I have all the time I need. But as of now, it seems I will not be given the opportunity for these enriching experiences. Do not think that when I say 'given' I mean 'handed to me'. That is to say, I do expect to work for them. But it seems an impossible feat for one of my background, my upbringing, to achieve.

It was easier when I was younger. I was able to find inspiration in the simple world around me. I could write pages about the wind in the trees. The world was much bigger then, and more mysterious. That spark, that wonderful spark, has faded. I weep at its loss, and I can find no solace. My left hand, formerly cramped and stained darkly with pencil, is now soft and absent of blisters. My heart bleeds, for no longer can I smile at the quickness of my own wit.

Who am I, if not a writer? The question itself is a tale of woe; a tale I hope fervently is never told. Maybe I am only going through a stage. Maybe all my fears will be reconciled in the near future, and I will be free of this nightmarish spell that has ensorceled me. I can only pray that it is so.