You know, I used to write stuff. A few years ago, I did short bits of fiction for this online newspaper on Neopets.com, where they published stories and articles with the site and its virtual world as a general theme. I was part of a writer community back then too, all of them writing stories for that weekly paper, and apparently I wasn't too shabby at it either. I enjoyed that, being able to put bits of imagination on paper, and plenty of people even read it. But then I stopped. That creative drive kind of ebbed away over time, and I could no longer get things on paper. Apparently, this was around the time computer games started taking up a lot of my time. After that, the only incentives I got for writing were little sparks of imagination that never really could flick on the lightbulb. The funny thing is, lately I've been having all sorts of new ideas.
This week I finished Dragon Age and, with no incentive to play it again any time soon, wanted to buy the new STALKER game. For the special edition I wanted you have to sign up with a credit card number, which means my parents won't let me use theirs and I have to request one from my own bank. No big deal, but sometimes they're just a bit too paranoid, my mom especially. A few days ago I forgot my music player in the lecture room and she's like "Buhh, you're never going to see it again". The next day I found it at the reception where someone simply turned it in. Surprise surprise, not everyone in the world is a criminal.
So anyway, I'm waiting for my new credit card to arrive - damn that was a lot of paperwork that came with the contract - without any games to play, when suddenly a concept story just puts itself together in my mind. With cows that live in marshes and that float on their intestinal gases in the wet season while feeding off water plants. Where the hell did that come from? Well, apparently all that creative energy is sucked up by the games I've been playing, probably by thinking of ways in which it could be better or filling in the gaps in the backstory myself. I wonder if this works similar to other people? That anyone can be a novelist, only their creativity goes into other things rather than turning inward? I don't know, but I'm going to try and see if this bottled-up imagination lends itself to writing. But first I have 2 exams to study for. Fuck.
Oh, and apparently I have a right side subtotal pneumothorax. I went to the doctor saying that my right lung felt as if it was coming off my chest slightly, which is apparently common among young, tall, slim men. Then I got sent to the hospital for an x-ray - that went like clockwork, that hospital works like an assembly line, only for fixing people - and nothing was visible. In hindsight, I could probably have told them that. When I felt something was wrong, I made a doctor's appointment, but by the time that and the x-ray came around it was gone already. Only now it's come back again. So I could go back to the hospital, again, where they might say nothing is wrong, again, or wait for it to go away like last time. Or the worst-case scenario, where they do find something on the x-ray and I get a tube shoved in my chest. That, or I don't go, and the lung collapses entirely and I get a tube shoved in my chest anyway. Seems like a no-brainer, now that I think about it...