The Start of the Generation of Ends

Nothing wonderful can never last forever- it's a sad fact of life, and for my generation seems to be one of the most prominent lessons to be seen. Kids born in the '90s, I believe, have some of the worst luck in terms of timing (creativity-wise, I realize we're lucky enough to come into a generation of technology and such). Within the past few years I've seen the end of many a good books, movies, cartoons, television shows, any and all forms of entertainment from interactive to recreational. The final closing of Toy Story 3 brought tears to my eyes; The world shook with anticipation hours before the final Harry Potter book was released; Paolini closed his series with a relatively good bang (to the public's view); and Disney's re-release of classic film shows that there truly isn't much else to look forward to in hand-drawn-animation.

So now I'm left with this feeling of... emptiness. My childhood dreams are crumbling down before me, and little is coming to replace it. There are some contenders, The Hunger Games amongst them (yet the series is already concluded, if I'm not mistaken), but I can't help but feel that they simply aren't meeting the same standards. I'm being thrown into a world of self-fulfillment, which translates into isolationism.

In the spirit and honor of creativity I pick up the pen and write what I hope will entertain someone else for years to come. I hope to write that fulfilling part to close that gap. But how do I continue on when I feel the same void within me?

Doom and gloom, dusk and despair, lives falling apart everywhere (a nice little poem there), and I still search on for that fulfilling part. I can't very well write to fill a gap I haven't found a way to close myself. And of all times, only months away until friends part, moving away to different colleges, people separate and leave one another behind- I very well fear becoming a shell of a man that I once was. This is something I've never had to cope with so strongly- before, it would be the end of a novel, but there would always be a sequel or another to replace it. Now, nothing comes forward to support. Backs are turned to the struggles I've never had to face, and for the first time in a long time, I feel completely and utterly alone.

Is it because I want to find change? Because I want to change who I am for my betterment? Surely, when walls are crumbling down anyways it's better to find a new home, right? These are the thoughts that I ask myself now, who really am I? Am I truly a writer, crafting stories, tales, and articles for others to reflect on? Am I truly a musician, singing of my life and what I hoped to be? The structures of my life are quickly crumbling, and there's no solid ground anywhere around to stand on.

A self-reflection by J.P. Griffin.