Lost in Translation

I used to be able to write. Now, not so much. Call it poetry, call it spoken word, call it random thoughts spilling out of my head and onto paper. I don't know where it came from, nor why it stopped. I just know that one day, in the middle of the night (literally), I woke up from a dream and just had to write. I want to say it was sometime in high school, though not sure which year. I think my imagination was in overdrive as I tried to pump out a 10-20 page essay in the span of 2 days. Don't act like you didn't (and still do) procrastinate. My best work came from procrastination. Yes, my mother said that was just an excuse, but I swore by it. Sure I tried to do that whole brain storm, rough draft, proof read, and final draft. Never really worked for me. I needed that pressure, that weight on my shoulders. And forget writing stuff down on paper, I just needed a keyboard to clank away on. I used to sit there and think of the assignment, glare around the room or out the window, and BAM my fingers would dance away. The story would play out in my head as I typed. Scenes would be deleted and replayed as I altered sentences. It was almost as if my imagination took over and vividly played out my words on paper. It was a blessing and a curse (yes, dramatic). I would be factoring problems in math class, then start writing a poem about the boy next to me. My school papers were filled with my words. Church was a vessel of unstoppable creativity. Sermon notes were a boundless playground for my silliness and pent up emotions. Ok sure my sister took the brunt of those notes, but we're not going to focus on that. Then one day, it just stopped (literally). My imagination was squelched. Perhaps choked by the reality of childhood lost and adulthood on the forefront. I could no longer just sit there and let my pen walk all over the paper in front of me. My fingers waltzed no more.