I met him when I was six. They ran and played together. I sat alone and wrote in my diary. I wrote books that I could never finish. I’d illustrate the cover, and give it a title. I’d number all the pages and make sure the book was sturdy before ever giving thought to the words needed. I’d save the story for last. Too often I would write a story and leave out the middle and end.
“Don’t worry little book,” I’d say, “I’ll finish you someday.”
But I never did. I never did finish that little book about my dog and my cat. I started several new ones, never to have an end. I met him as a child, we left him soon after, but he remained a reminder of a pleasant time in my life. Seeing him much later, threw me back into the days that my family was whole and happy. It was a warm, sad feeling. My mind loves to wonder and wander and write my life away. What I write is true.
The image of a lonely child climbing up a tree. She sits upon it content, because she is free. She waits for her savior to bring her home, and take away the feeling of being left alone.
Certain voices, songs will just throw me into that mood. You know the mood that throws you into a blizzard of words, of thoughts. To ignore it should be a crime, is a crime. I think we are called to create in different ways. I think I’ll paint. I’m no good at it, but it seems to help the soul smile. I can hear my dog chewing her large nylabone. A simple life she has where chewing a toy could bring her joy. Isn’t that something? To be simple…
I have come to the conclusion that I must write more often if I want to deal with writing or editing as a profession.
You know what they say about dog training, “Perfect practice makes perfect!” I don’t know how much that translates into writing, but it is there for me to consider.
Profound! I need to be profound in my writing, and accurate! But I can be so choppy when I am writing for fun. Choppy, and pointless and runny and full of commas. How can I create my own style of writing? My writing is really just my thoughts in a somewhat physical form. And aren’t we all unique? So my writing should automatically be unique as long as I don’t try.
Just thoughts… However! I don’t think that is how it works. I pay no attention to grammar in my thoughts. I’m lost again, where was I going? That’s right. The sea, to contemplate what I need to do. By the sea I will find what I need to become something unique. Something not so boring, or flat, but thoughtful and free… Like this here pit bull, focused, but not straying from the line keeping her in touch with reality’s firm path.
P.S. I have no idea what I’m talking about most of the time. 😛
Writing is so very fun. I wrote this one last night, while listening to Modest Mouse. I’ve noticed that their music makes me want to write.
Are there voices
Damaging a heart?
Are those questions
Picking us apart
A dry world never
Letting us press start
I see a little more
I find what makes
What drives my mind
Can only be found
In these hands of mine.
In the dark night, nothing seemed more important than her own reflection. Idea after idea, after realization, after epiphany, she thought and thought, her reflection never getting any clearer. She wrestled, boxed, raced, fought and lost sight of the breeze, of the Earth’s great beauty, as she stumbled after this reflection. A soul troubled by nonexistent fears, by pressure placed so delicately, but permanently on her shoulders. Life, time, the race never-ending stood at her heart’s door, wanting only to make itself known. “Known to whom?” She would ask. And the light would dim; just another fight with self would begin. A mind not so quiet, rambles on and on, until the thoughts of another stumble in and stay for a while. Stumble in and stay for a while…
Reflection, mirrors drink me in and will not allow me leave, until this puzzle is solved. A mind not so quiet, and another thought: What comes with a day? The sun moves away too quickly to ever consider staying. The cowardly clouds move farther, as my steps push them away. A way into the world is what my mind tries to avoid. A void within the day drives me into the night, to contemplate what is in a mind.
I have not written a short story in a very long time. It felt really good to dedicate the last few minutes of tonight to this. I might do more. 🙂
The Moon created a small pool of light for her to sit in. A small rodent of society curled up beneath the night. The grass pricked and poked at her arms and legs. The wind carried over the sound from the city.
Even atop the mountain she could hear the complaints, the whines, the anger and frustrations we chose to pursue. With an outstretched hand she pointed at the bird fluttering around in front of her. She tilted her head and stared. Examining the carefree bird; well fed and obviously in good health. It chirped and enjoyed the breeze. The rodent girl spoke and the bird vanished. She slumped as her only audience had left her. She wanted an audience; anything that has had experience breathing would work. But she would more so appreciate an audience that has thought as well; thoughts of fiction, of fantasies, dreams and playgrounds (the never-ending kind). She would really like an audience of at least one. Still slumped, she spoke again; the same words spoken as earlier.
A moment of silence, then her world moved. A shiny hero of life strode by. The hero turned to her and stared. The rodent girl felt the weight of his stare and met his eyes. Her head tilted in confusion. They were locked for what seemed like years. She slumped again. Why would this shining veggie of society bother to hear my words? She thought aloud. The veggie sat down not too far from where the bird had been fluttering about.
He almost seemed unreal. The girl tried to speak, but her nerves closed her lips. She could not say a word. She was never scared to speak in the presence of anyone else. Fear seized her as she realized her silence may scare away her only listener. Don’t go, she wanted to scream, but there she sat in silence. Fear and nerves destroyed any hope and any chance of receiving the ears of this other soul. The grass’s touch was agonizing. How could this happen? Is this a cruel joke life offers her? Why murder the sad face, the one trying to hope? She slowly lifted her gaze to see the shiny person before her. Hatred grabbed her hand as she thought of herself. She could speak to anything and everything that wasn’t listening, but to you who came bravely into the confusion around me. She could say nothing!
Her heart forced her to stand. Head drooped , she turned to go down the mountain. To be forgotten, when he whispered, “Don’t go…”