The Rest Is Still Unwritten

This week I went through all of my storage bins to find my journals, lyric notebooks, and other written works. I have stuff saved dating back to 1998 when I was only 5 years old. My first story I wrote was about a lost puppy, and was completely fictional. As my writing went on, it started to personify itself into something more real. I began writing stories and books and started creating characters from the ground up. I knew their name, exactly what they looked like, and hobbies and interests even before I began writing the story.

My characters took on personality of their own, yet in every single character, there was a piece of me. Whether it’s what the character wore, how they talked, or even what issues they dealt with on a daily basis. As I would write, I would find that my own secrets and insecurities would fill the page as the character took life. I’ve never been good about talking about my feelings, and I’ve always been better at putting my feeling into text. My stories are literally a story of my life to an extent, or where I see my life going. 

I lived through my characters, and their problems, resembling my own, I would find solutions. And if I didn’t like the outcome, I would erase it and start over. This way I could create the ideal situation. I had control of every characters destiny. Sometimes I wish that I could take an eraser to life. I would erase the people of whom shaped me and see who I would become without influence. I would erase the times I felt sad, and the times of confusion. Then I would re-write it. I would re-write it to be the perfect version of what I think life should be.

As I’ve gotten older, my writing has become very real and very honest. I no longer need to hide behind the face of a character to be able to portray what’s going on in my life. For a long time, my writing was all I had, and as people would read my stories, I always hoped that they would see me within it. I hoped that they would see my pain and want to help. I was literally crying out for help to anybody that would read my work. And I needed help, but that was the only way I knew how to ask for it. I was ashamed of myself, and I would walk around with my happy face on, and nobody knew what was behind it, not even my own family. Theater taught me to be someone I wasn’t, and it came easy to me. 

Instead of hiding behind a character, I hide behind online identities and pseudonyms for my own protection, not because I am afraid to admit who I am. Once you have been a victim of blackmail and sextortion, it’s easiest to be someone else. So to you all, my name is Lennox, and I’m very happy you are here. Even though I cannot control most things, I am the author of my own destruction, and for the moment, that’s ok. This is only the beginning, and I have dreams bigger than life. But for now… The Rest Is Still Unwritten.


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