Just hurt, plainly hurt, cracked up inside, like solid ice that is slowly breaking, like vain’s that seem to suddenly appear, in shapes and color, that you have never seen before, like something carving, that dig deep into the bottom of your insides, you have never noticed have ever exited, pain, it is painful, it makes it so hard for you to breathe, isolation, devastation, separation, you can see your mental map split in half, you can see that you are seeing way too many things going on and happening inside your head, that you no longer understand which rope to hold on, you can look into her eyes, every morning, and see tears, and sadness caused by you, but you don’t understand what is hurting her, all you know is the hurt and pain inside your heart, you can feel you are also cracking, just like she is, you both don’t want to keep hurting, but this blockage of ice, it can not just simply melt into liquid, Liquid, we need it to be liquid, just melted, down in water, that can move in and merge into a big river, a sea, an ocean, just merge liquid, that can be moved, that can change, waves, floating in the air, back and forth, silence, soft and tranquil, liquid brings the solid into life, we just want it to live, bring it back to life, like love, energy, vibes, vibration, in sequence, in connection, like a dance, a dance, that dance that belongs to us, together, not alone, us, together, everyone, together….
One of the few things I know about writing is this:
Spend it all, shoot it, play it, loose it, all, right away, every time. do not hold what seems to be good for later, place it in the book, or for another book, give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better pace later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for latter; something better.
These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water. Similarly, the impulse to keep yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly, becomes lost in you. You open your safe and find ashes.
Whatever it is; CRISIS,
We create our own CRISIS,
All of it, like broken glass, just smash it down with your own stamp and turn them into the smallest pieces surfacing the bottom line of your skull,
They scream out loud “IT IS CRISIS”
Who are they, and who determines what is CRISIS,
Why scream so loud, when all you can do is sweep the pieces off the floor, trash them or super glue them back together,
They can be simple new choices,
Those crisis of yours can be better yet turned into choices,
Just look at what can be done and not what has been done,
Leave it, let it, mend it, just don’t turn everything into a whole black hole, where only your nose fits but then it is stuck, maybe forever, with a black hole on the tip-top of your nose, you will always have to live with it, you will always be the only one, SEEING IT.
Daily Prompt: Crisis
So what is it that drives us? Where do we want to go anyway? We move and sometimes things move us, but how do we know what drives us? How do we know where do we want to go? We learn by example, or we learn by experience, we don’t always need to know what “exactly” it is that we want or that moves us, if we have that desire to want to know then we are already half way there, that desire is a movement, just go with it, let it lead you don’t try to lead it, let it take you, try, fail, it is okay, but try, try as hard as you can, and don’t stop. You will come upon a scene, or something that will scream at your face and tell you “here I am, I am your drive, I am your movement” and you will know where you want to go, without your drive, you will never know where you want to go, so listen, listen to that inner thing moving that takes place when you are quiet, or loud, when you are in the center or on the side, listen… let your ears lead you to your drive, and let your drive take you to your destination.
Daily Prompt: Drive
It is like a routine, a daily reminder, to get up, and start something new, everyday.
It is like walking up a mountain, between the trees, and the wind, and the air, and the breeze, and to breathe, once again, to remember, that life, is still up and running.
It is like being on the plane, looking out the window, to remember, the advantages of today, the opportunities of tomorrow.
It is like looking into the clouds, so white and fluffy, so inseparable and invisible, looking different at every angle, you can never get it right, because there is no right.
It is about the horrific things, that take place, every day, in this world, that make us forget, about the little things, we are surrounded by… reasons to be grateful for, that we keep pushing aside.
We think being in a cage keeps us protected, keeps them protected, we think we are doing our selves and one another a favor when we put a cage around us. But birds were born free, we were born free, we learn things as we grow, we are who we are when we are set free. Yes, we can trip, and fall, we can do mistakes, and the chances of making mistakes are high, but without them, how do we know what life is? Who we truly are? Stop putting a cage around us, around each other, accept your children as they come, as they grow, as they rebel, just be there, watch them, protect them, listen to them, speak to them, but don’t put a cage around them. Don’t prevent your children from exploring life and the colors it is painted with, let them fly as far as they want and where ever their instincts take them. Don’t try to change the way they speak or dress or sing, don’t force them to make you proud just to make you feel better about yourself. The best feelings ever is seeing your loved ones spread their wings on their own and fly, the best feeling is to see that their wings are different from any other, and that they are still as beautiful or even more beautiful. Allow them to settle, allow them to be, independent or dependent, allow them to be silent, or speak their brains out, allow them to perform, or to be isolated, allow them to try. But be there to listen, to watch, to care, to love, to praise, to reflect, to smile, to hug, be there to make them feel they are not alone. Set them free.
A table wrapped in white cloth, hiding the antique old wooden wood beneath it that sits there with stains and knick knocks, It is furnished with red wine and green flowers, it is sprayed with jasmine water scent, and Brooklyn flavours, it has been stuffed with white plates and crystal glasses, butter knifes, and fresh-baked bread, the smell of the ovens bakery is so aromatically floating in the air, as each chair has a character of its own, ready to be seated by a man of his own vanities and flares, women in their shawls and tight skirts, life is like a shadow that moves in complete mystery and waste to what not no one knows, and what one thinks knows it all, blueberries and blackberries, mint leaves, and pearls, all enter the side room, as people begin to explain, their heart breaks and their flowers, that have been their mending to their love makings, the Irish, and the Danish, the Arabs, and the Germans, they all are greeted by lemons, and olives, greens and brows, hours of cheap talks, and hours of fake laughter, people continue to move into rooms, where cakes are served in butter, toasted in chocolate, and almond bites, the sugar is too sweet, the tea is too heavy, the party has only started it is three am, Breakfast is being baked, beds are unmend, helpless people toss themselves in jars, fight for a cookie with white pieces, over dark pieces so stained, fresh strawberries over left over cake, tickets to watch the next show have been sold out, and the people are only rushing outside their doors to make it in shapeless forms and fearful faces, they quickly but quietly brush their hairs and plug their eyebrows, they squeeze what is left over from their lip stick onto their lips, they tie their ties up tight into what they think is scheme, their shoe laces are left untied, but the clock is ticking, there is no time to look back, empty chairs, the sun is here, the people are gone, the house is clean, the paintings are hanging, the flowers continue living, and we sit and wait for the next round to… all over again…
Creative Writing on a Tuesday Morning Inspired by My Collection of Instagram’s favorite Pieces collected from 2015, The Dinner Club 57, _FoodStories_, Margaret__Zhang, Sunday Suppers, Food 51, Trotter Mag, Make My Lemonade, Food 52, Food 53, What For Breakfast