A Certain Inability

I've always wanted to write, but the great Hoover Dam holding back my creative juices was a certain inability. The inability to organize all those chemical messages and electrical impulses called "thought."

But I could never organize my thoughts, not even into a a flow chart or one of those crazed "Brain Maps" your toad-like fourth grade teacher made you make. I really disliked those, because they told you to "be creative." But to me, even in the fourth grade, creativity meant Picasso, Degas, Monet, and Shakespeare. But for some reason I was not allowed to be like them, perhaps because I was too advanced for my teachers. But probably because their just was not enough time for my nine-year-old self masterpieces.

Today in English I sat my fifteen-year-old-sophomore self down, behind some stocky linebacker or wrestling buff. Since the class set of the House on Mango Street books have not yet arrived, my teacher is filling the void with seemingly mindless tasks and articles to decipher.

My class read an article by some unknown, yet famous author. The author talked about how people often try to leave an impression, but often that impression is not a true shadow of its creator. Thus, what else? It sucks. Its bone dry. And most commonly its not about anything. Good writing is like you and your passion.

I was inspired. Which is quite abhorrent, as I find "inspirational" pieces as assignments bland, nonchalant, and too lovey-dovey for high school.

Yet here I am, trying to overcome my inability to manifest my crazy, juvinille thoughts unto the public.