The me within myself

The short story of the motivation behind the short story.

-The Me within Myself-

I stare at the blank page within my computer screen while I sit on the office chair given to me by my brother. My inspiration as blank as the page as I could feel myself searching through every inch of my brain for even a single hint of what to write. "If you don't begin writing now, you'll never improve." I thought again and again.This sudden urge to write, where did this come from? It simply didn't make sense. I gave myself a bit of a rest and took a look at my room. The room that I never bothered cleaning, dirtied by clothes, food stains and various other objects scattered around. Not once, I horribly admit, have I ever felt like cleaning my room, and I don't feel like a slob, because whenever I want to find something in my room, I have no problem finding it, unless someone moved it.

And yet out of nowhere, I have this horrible itch that's telling me to write a piece of work worth reading. I couldn't even ask myself why anymore, the impulse is becoming too great. 

"Do it." "Write" "Move your fingers." So on. Those words in my head, sounding off again and again are driving me to type, and yet I have nothing to type. Even though I have a burning desire to write so great, it feels as though could warm people in the arctic for weeks, I have nothing to write in the first place. It feels like I'm unable to do the only thing I know how at the moment. This conflict is starting to make me go mad, that I'd start trashing my room, but I won't. I'd have more of a mess that I'd never get around to clean up afterwards.

"Write what you know." a voice said. A voice that was my own and yet a different voice at the same time. What I know isn't enough to write something decent. If I wanted to, I could write a detective story, but I'd have too many inconsistencies in the facts and the logic behind his accusations and findings. I could write a mystery, but then the story would of course be inconsistent still, and I wouldn't even be able to make a decent story that hasn't already been made in the first place. I could always write a fictional fantasy, but then I don't have the motivation or time to get into the specifics of my own versions of the mythical creatures created by so very many authors, like "sparkly vampires" or spin-offs of original stories of mythology. And anyways, what would people see in one of very many versions of the original stories or my not-so-very vivid version of a fantasy world? I'm surprisingly very demoralizing to myself.

"Write what you feel." the voice spoke in a tone as if replying to my thoughts. Of course it's replying to my thoughts, it's just another me inside myself after all. In fact, I could visualize him right now, I could turn back from my seat and see myself, standing, wearing the same clothes, looking almost exactly the same as I would look like right now, except he's not real. If not, I could imagine myself as a girl with the chest, hair and dress to match the whole set. However, that would be very demeaning and degrading to myself. "That doesn't mean that you should ignore my suggestions." She replied. Hah, I turned him into a girl.

I'm putting off my work by talking to myself inside my head again. The urge to write is still strong, as strong an urge it is for animals to mate in their mating season, if that's a proper comparison. Probably not.

I looked deeper into myself, searching through the deep recesses of my mind again and again. "Write what you want to write." the voice spoke again. Well gee, I'd love to, but then if I want to publish this or at least make it proper reading material, I can't just "Write what I want to write".

The voice didn't reply, and the silence of my mind was very unsettling. I stood up from my chair and turned around. 

"Write from your experiences." the voice spoke, in the tone of a sweet, innocent little child. 

A small boy stood before me, with that old formal hair cut that I've always hated, wearing my old favorite blue shirt that felt the most comfortable among my shirts and the same pair of shorts that I was always wearing as a kid. He gave me a sweet and innocent smile for a moment until he disappeared. 

And then, from that encounter, I knew exactly what to 

"Then write already!" Shouted the voice of my inner child.