I should be sleeping.

But instead I'm thinking about writing. In fact, now I'm blogging about writing.
Which makes no sense. It has nothing to do with anything related to today, or recently, or, well, any sort of relevance to anything.
But the fact is, I've been lying in my bed for pretty much the past half hour thinking about it. And I can't sleep because my brain isn't shutting down. Which sucks.

But what I've been thinking: For a significant portion of my life, I've enjoyed writing. The past several months, I've hoped (secretly) to myself and to close compadres of mine that some thing could actually come of it. Mostly, I want to out put some meaningful thing that will impact somebody for the better. I want writings and stories and quotes that make somebody just go "Oh wow. Never thought of it like that before." or "maybe there is something to it all" or stuff like that.
Its what I want to do with my future, really. Most people have dreams of careers and families and homes and such. That stuff, hasn't really meant much to me yet. I'm excited, but those aren't my goals is what I mean. My goal is to impact a few people, influentially and for the better. I want to inspire and create some lasting positive impact.
And writing has always been my own outlet. I won't go into massive detail or anything, but its like, when I was a little kid, I would always get these little journals and have a great story in mind. And after like two chapters, get bored, and get a new book and a new story. This was when I was like a 7 year old spaz. Then for a while I went through that typical tween journal phase. Bleck, no big deal.

But now, I really use writing to cope. And I like to feel like I'm creating something.
But maybe I'm not.
Because recent learnings in my literature class have illuminated me to what it means for something to be "meaningful literature."
And now I look at what I create.
My "poems" are probably devoid of imagery, metaphor, conciet, or whatever it takes to be significant. Hell, they don't even have rhyme scheme or structure. They aren't even poems. They are words.
And my blogs are worse. Emotional purging, me at my saddest or maddest, usually. Plus, blogs and lists put me to ease on nights like this. I can sleep after I empty my thoughts.
These aren't great creations. And I'm scared to try to write something real. Where do I start? And worse, what if I don't finish? I'm notorious for not finishing.

I like my stories, in my head, that I tell to others. I want people to want to go out and read them, and enjoy them.
I don't even know how great writing happens now. Or if it does. With internet and audio books and great information leaks and such, great literature seems to be growing a thing of the past.
Works like those of Tolkien, Rand, Emerson, Etc, just aren't happening anymore. My generation is all about fucking Stephenie Meyers.

I personally love any thing created. I like to look at something and feel like this was once somebody's brain child, that they poured their heart into making this. Great painters like Dali and Michelangelo. Anything that was loved by somebody, and then impacted others.
I want to do that. On a smaller scale, obviously. Its ridiculous to think one could become so big. But still. For me, its writing and stories.


That was long and ridiculous and pointless, probably.
I don't think I established anything, except that I have a goal too. A goal that apparently, takes a lot more literary devices and symbolism than I encorporate probably. I feel off base with all of this. Like all along, it was something just for fun, with no global purpose anyway. Haha. It was a lovely dream. And it still is.
I just don't get how it happens in today's world.
I'm not making sense anymore, probably.


Buuuut, I think I'm good to go to sleep now.
Goodnight :)