I've always had a thing for mountains. Whenever I write stories, the setting painted in my head would somehow lean towards abandoned remnants of a civilisation. Remnants lost and forgotten, cluttered on a mountain top with dusty grey and black rocks, rocks sharp like knives but cushioned with deep green tainted moss. There's always a main character that stumbles upon these remnants, he or she ending up on the mountain top due to some sort of gifted power or hereditary magic. I would always feel so content when I start writing, knowing that I would finally be able to tackle a proper work of fantasy this time - but it never really plays out in the end. Time and time again.

I have so many unfinished works!

I'm laying down on my bed after deciding that I'm really not in the mood to look at the pages of my textbook, all the color and vividness of its content fading out into dry monochrome prints. My mind is drifting off towards the same image of a dark mountain enveloped by a ring of mist, its peak piercing through the sky's stains of daybreak.

I'm trying to get as much creative juices flowing, trying to bring a main character to life, trying to get a story plotted out. The fiction I end up writing usually holds so much angst and heavy traces of burning hearts and forbidden romance. The scenes I map out in my head get so sad sometimes, a little pearl of a tear would start to dance off the corner of my eye. Call me crazy but I stand firm in my views that writing tear-jerkers are so much more fun than writing fluffy little squeal-stealers. The moulding of words in these stories is an experiment that I could drown in for hours, shuffling and altering them to produce lines so hauntingly beautiful that you would read them and feel the muscles in your heart clench - throat dry and emotions raw from letting the words you read form its image in your head.

I think my main character is going to be a boy this time (again, actually). For now I see him sitting with his back against the cold surface of the side of the mountain, with one leg stretched on the top of a log on the ground and the other folded up in front of him, arm perched on his knee. The sun is rising and the bags under his eyes seem to weigh his sight down as the breaking light pierces through his vision. I can't make out what he looks like at the moment, or much of the traits that I want him to possess. For now he's rubbing off as an avid dreamer, someone thats lonely by nature and not by choice.

Where do I go from here though? I always get stuck at the same point.

Really hoping that I would have some time this week to clear my head by spacing out with this in mind. It's bugging me how there's just an idea floating around the spaces of my head but I'm left hopeless unable to find the definitions to it.

I really want to come up with spontaneous plots as easily as I could before :( This culture of structure is getting to me so hard.