Creativity (Midnight Freewrite)

Once upon a time, my mind was blank.
Could I finally be sane
from the feelings ingrained in my so often flooded mind?
This ocean pushes the small grains of sand as though keeping
them all at one place,
the inability to crawl back to where they once were.
Accompanied by many,
yet purified throughout the constant washing due
to clashing of waves.
The stubborn rocks give in,
once enormous,
they've become wearisome from being pummeled over and over by the ruthless ripples,
eating away mercilessly like piranhas.
The rocks begin to deteriorate like my wretched nightmares,
as if it was inevitable for them to reciprocate this way.

I think to myself

Could I for once create something beautiful without the taint
of distortion my pessimistic perspective brings upon my cursed
brain?
Or is the lust after such a wicked dream be looked down
upon by my insides which take control of me?

Perhaps one should blame his imaginations
for considering such a change.
Imaginations which were once banished.
Ones leading to joy and happiness,
when one was once optimistic to the sun and the trees,
the butterflies in his stomach that
cause him to day dream.
The butterflies which took him away from the struggles, and constant agony.
The one that drove him away from the thoughts
of his uncles,
and made him believe they would be there as he woke.

The kind of imagination that
One must pinch himself to see if he's awake.

But why do I feel?

                                                                I once had the power to dream,
                                                 To think such miracles were real.
                             I dared to think there was such a thing.

                                                     My creativity got the best of me.