Someday

 

Dear Someday,

I hope this letter reaches you. I meant to tell you all this in person but something came up, as it always does. I’m sorry. I promise, Someday, well meet.

I always talk about you. I think your name has stained my lips with a  promise and  its made for colourful conversations. I talk about you with my friends, with my family, I even find myself talking to complete strangers about you. I tell them about everything we have drawn up in those little dream books of ours, they seem to love you. The people around me haven’t been too impressed with some of my decisions lately, so its kind of a big deal that the like the sound of you. Heck, I really like the sound of you too, you make it sound so easy.

I often revisit those notes we drew up in the hours spent scheming in leu of work. At the top of one of the pages we started a list with “6am Wake up”. 6 am wake up, boy, I remember being as excited as you were when I wrote that down, it was powerful. 6am meant getting a jump start on any day, with everyday we would have had this full day to get things done. I think I must have slept with the laptop on that night, because the light from my screen tends to mess with my REM cycles, so I had to snooze a few of those 6am wake up calls. Dont worry Someday, Ill do it.

Its such a shame its not as easy as writing these things down and then just watching them happen. We could definitely be kicking back with a talk glass of something cold to celebrate our winnings. I mean, look at these lists, of course wed be well on our way to something major. Running a 40 minute 10K, entering a writing competition every month, training 3 times a week, eating well, meditating everyday, and reading at least 2 new books each month. Why wouldn’t that lead to greatness. Only if it was easy as writing it down and watching it happen.

When we talk about all the little things and all the big things that we could be doing, its like you were painting a fantasy. Asking me to just erase a whole bunch of stuff that’s been around me for so long that world looks fuzzy without them in it. You have the best intentions when you try to teach me about taking chances. The whole thing about missing 100% of the chances you don’t take is straight out of some Rich Dad Poor Dad speal, but sucks that it makes sense.

I know you aren’t as far away as I’d like to think sometimes. To some degree you scared me with your willingness to break the mold and walk where there wasn’t a road. I’ve stacked a lot future against your name, I guess its time I shouldered my share of the burden.

See you soon,

See you at Sunrise.

 

Yours

 

Blissful Nomad

 

Step Into My Office

Where is this all coming from? I’m not talking about the home of my thoughts, not that labyrinth, heavy with winding passages. Rather, where am I writing this from, Step into my office.

I was told it’s important for a writer to have a writing space, a place to sit and single mindlessly focus on bringing about a world of make believe. Some people escape to a place that’s very separate to their daily life. I’ve heard of writing rooms, rented spaces in building blocks, coffee shops and forgotten class rooms. I have a double room that serves me for the purposes of conjuring vivid dreams, and as a place to lay my head at night .

The room affords me the comforts that are expected from any room fitted for its purpose. I have my bed, tidily hugging the left most wall of the room, with a small bed side table ticked against it. The lazy white wash of the walls crowds around me, coating the ceiling and coursing up to where the window allows the world in.

I have learned to lose myself in this window frame, It’s changing tones affect my frame of mind accordingly. The crashing chorus of Crimson that the sun paints into the air dancing my mind into a creative flow. I sit myself up with my back against my head board, pull my laptop up to my lap, point my feet to the opening and drift from Window to window, the world and my world, picking at the inspiration wondering in. Sometimes the pace of a pen has the temperament needed to steady the feverish pace of my thoughts, in those moments I lay prone across my sheets and etch away at the pages.

I don’t always have the luxury of my bedroom to pen a phrase or two. I make use of the stage, the world around has pockets of peace that have aided me from time to time. I’ve joined the crowds in quiet cafes and hidden among the bubbling life of a local pub. However spontaneous the location for my next writing session might be, I intentionally seek that window, with my back against the wall and the world looking in, I delve into whatever mischief the pen requires for that moment.

It’s here that I chase my slumber, in pursuit of dreams I dare to stop and watch the fury of my mind bind it’s musings to paper so I can see them.

Welcome to my office, sanctuary of dreams.

Gold-Mind

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There is so much gold inside your longing to be you, this is the most precious intent. No heavy cloaks of foul feelings can dim a diamond cut by the goodness you feed your mind. The mind, so precious an instrument, when seeded with love will yield abundance. Make the mistake of welcoming thoughts with ugly features and you run the risk of stepping into an ugly world, cold and uninviting.

Its okay to be you, let the manikins muse. So often revered, this jury of your pears has played a role in stifling your sunlight. You have earned your summer, so smile and forget shame. Learn to love all that your heart conjures in its hunger for life, its thirst for love, and its wants in the throes curiosity.

I have never seen a rose recoil in shame. It blushes often, but bears its head with pride, unashamedly a rose, be a rose. Let all the goodness in you blossom and let the world return the favour. There is nothing more contagious than true happiness.

…If you have good thoughts it will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.

Roald Dahl

 

 

Father Forgive Me

On his face, the years are telling. His eyes, once alive with colour, were now shadows, long bled of there vibrant qualities. His skin, once taught with youth, draped as the last shroud of a man who has forgotten himself. The ushers of the  great hall were accustomed to his coming and going. It had been years since he attended a service accompanied by wife and son, now he creeps under the silent vigil of the crucifix to say his prayers. His lips had counted away the years on the varnished pine of that old cathedral.

Every man has in him a story without an audience. To the crucifix with its burden still pinned to it, he offered the secret journal of a man burdened by bitterness. Some of his hidden stories he is liberated from, jaded by the decay that meets thoughts long since unused. Others still hang to him heavily. The icy countenance of the grey walls gained a kinship with his story. He spoke of family, he spoke of life, he spoke of the dark folds hidden in his memory, he cried. He spoke of Mary.

Mary was the persistent thread, a vibrant yarn of red woven into his life patiently. Now a frayed parchment of a man, turning to the abundant flame of faith to help seal his loose edges. He was riddled with questions. The cold bottles he swallowed whole, hadn’t simmered the fire in his belly. Maybe a prayer rushing through the hollow house of holy communion could extinguish his inquisition.

For a man that the world had forgotten, Mary and the church offered sanctuary, she gave him a family again. He hadn’t swooned to the holy books as she had done, but the unrelenting love she claimed came from her faith was soothing to his spirit. As a boy he was hard to love, they said, no mother to teach tenderness, so her loving him was as water on wanting earth. As a boy his spirits were hoisted higher than most, and he had a nose for finding trouble enough to test his fathers heavy hand. In learning his father trade, the firm hand of an infirm mind, he watched his palm weep the faces around him to a cold distance. Only Mary’s warming smile and vibrant eyes, speckled with blue, were true and brave enough to warm him to the notion of worth.

He always blamed himself for the return of his father in him. He regretted that on that evening he was his fathers son again, riled into agitation by his sons action. That evening had lived in every evening since then. Any evening quiet enough, any evening potent enough with liquor to ease him into sleep would conjure the incident to life. He always woke up as he hears the last note of life, the last tumble at the last stair as she laid to rest. She was only hoping the calm him. There was ruckus, then there was silence. There have been 7 years of silence since.

**********************

On leaving the church he followed the empty roads to where there is a mounted stone and his Mary’s name etched on it. On that day it had been 7 years since he let her rest, the earth was never a fitting place for her. He’d always thought she would lay her wreath for him, never him for her, so he watched in ceremony and laid his apologies where her memory lay. The sun was running away from the day, the last light sinking into the ground waiting for the night to greet him.

He was startled by a sound. Greeted by two nimble arms pulling him close, little Hope wrapped her arms around her grandfather and help him tight. His only son had arrived to remember his mother, the two exchanged nods and separately made peace. Hope was alive by his feet looking up at his weary face with hers still full of life. She greeted him with her eyes, bluer than life and swollen with undying youth, speckled with blue. Playing with the ends of her red sweater, tugging at the loose thread at the sleeves. He stopped her short, stilled her hands and held her close. She saw him as Mary had always done, a man worth loving. A promise of life had found him, in Hope.

 

 

Choice

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Sometimes its easy, sometimes its hard, but making the decision is key. There are a thousand tributaries rooted in every second, every moment presents an option to reshape the course of the river. This body of time has life and a mind of its own, it keeps coursing, swallowing the world in its fluid steps. Gracefully supple, undeniably powerful, you have to take care and take to it in the right way.

There is a song that plays in the air as it cuts a course.The sweet and sour notes of this able bodied wine, aged since time in memorial, winds a testing harmony, demanding action or provoking complacency. Branches will fall from family trees, the ground will give way, there will be rapids that will beg you to find the strength to find air when it leaves you. When you fall victim to the notion that you are merely a passenger, you turn you lips to sour curves when greeted by the dissonance in the melody of you maladjustments. These twisted features steal from your chance to take ownership and rescue your rhythm. Tread carefully, pause and tread water, find the strength to command you minds oars.

I was in the habit of watching her lead. Infected by everything inside her, I lost sight of sense while spending time in her tranquil torrents. Like anyone else, I had my senses, I had my character. Without faltering I proved myself the master of my own thoughts on many an occasion rich with with her clear waters. She paralyzed this truth, with rapids, blankets of wash that showered me, washing my hands clean of confidence stolen from worldly things. Naked, I felt nameless, the river left me with many questions. Who was I? Where was I headed.

I believe our words are heavy, so I heaved a statement into existence that yoked my sense of self to effort. The river will always run, its race is longer and truer than mine. I will dive in and run with it while my body is able, while my breath is in action I will work with the waves and hold up my end of the bargain and cut my own course. There are a thousand tributaries rooted in every second, every moment presents an option to reshape the course of the river. I will be ready when the rapids return, captain of my voyage.

 

Why I write

I have managed to sign myself up for another Blogging U. Its called #everydayinspiration. For the next 20 days I’ll be posting in response to blogging prompts the lovely people at Daily Post will be sending my way. The first is a free write about why I write. Enjoy.

 

There is never enough in words to really bring it all to life. Still, I try. There are little books filled into small pockets of forgotten spaces in my room that chronicle my numerous attempts at making words into windows into something I had playing on my mind at one point or another.

Its hard to sit back and list all the reasons that lead me to try to get a grip of this particular art form. The fact that I can call it an art form, is, in itself, a testament to how much I have changed in my approach to it. The beginning of this mild, to severe addiction, was in music. It was always an idea of mine, to some extent that idea is still in the back of my mind, to let music tell the things i couldn’t tell the world as my mild mannered alter ego.

When i opened up my notebooks and writing spaces, there was permission. You learn that the key to good writing in honesty and untethered creativity. This was a drug that worked its way into me and taught me the reckless wave of creativity that twisted my mind into foreign realms of awesome. I cant remember ever learning to swim my limbs through any physical body of water successfully, I never had the chance to learn to do that well, but the way I swim through these ideas, and work my own wording to aid there life, has the sensations I sometimes relate to what I feel swimming could feel like. This isn’t the only deficit it kills.

I am allowed a glimpse into things that my mind toyed with mildly, when words are given to these fleeting ideas, they find there bodies wildly, as they are fleshed into the light, I have the opportunity to see the gait of them, when the notion wobbles in its manifestation, I can take to finding the causes.

Maybe I have a story to tell. When I’m taken by the mood, I have enough certainty to spur me on to sharpen my tools so as to lend me the makings of a man who can share what needs to be shared.

I started reading a few more books when I decided to take my writing more seriously. My book shelves began to fill with names that I was told could teach me a great deal, fact and fiction, some Dickens, some Descartes, some Plath, some Sartre. The fascination with stepping into separate worlds was growing at a steady pace. Steady pace, a pace that I wanted to corrupt with a zealous cadence that will find me a new home in the other side of mediocrity. It becomes a challenge to speak for a smaller voice that creates a racket, never allowing itself to be the whole it can truly be.

To my words, I haven’t always been fair about the way you present yourself to the world. I was shy about loving you. But how you could understand the way i was asked to present myself to the world and the way I have to present myself to you. It wasnt that the world was better than the world in the ledgers we have survived. I just found it better, for us, to keep you as perfect as you are. They haven’t got the eye for beauty that you deserve. The writer is an awkward soul who straddles two worlds and borrows time from one world to live in the other more naturally. Where home is, isn’t always clear.

Writing 101, Day 7: Knight and Day

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Hello one and all, we meets again as writing 101 powers on. This piece here was an interesting one to work on. I was asked to write a piece in the form of a dialogue, that was a challenge in itself, but the assignment had a twist, the two voices in the piece had to be representatives of two opposing stand points, light and dark, cold and cold, high and low, the possibilities began to seem infinite. I tried to sit around, drawing up the perfect polar opposites to pit against each other in a dynamic whirlwind of a dialogue. It was well and truly a challenge, after much thought and deliberation I made the decision to challenge myself, I offered up two themes a chance to voice themselves. I give to you, Clarity and Temptation. Enjoy!

 

“They’ve forgotten all about you!” She said. “All they want is me. They do not remember loving you!”

She perspired the coldest diction, she had perfected her way with words. The air around her danced to the cadence of a learned malice. Her perfectly pursed lips pressed her twisted words to life. She was sensual, she was stern, she was everything she thought they wanted, so she hated the hope he harboured.

“They will always have me in there hearts.” He was sure.

He stood firm under the tumultuous waves of her diction, never losing his footing beneath him. He never fought to fill a frame with what he claimed to be his, he was a voice that spoke a steady promise, a mind who waited for time to offer up those gifts not promised, never  swayed by the sweet scent of her frivolity.

“I make them feel alive, you force them into tedium. With me they never have to wait, my very touch is satisfaction, you insist on prolonging suffering, what kind of love is that?” She watched his face for a failing hope, “They will never search for you, Look at those faces, they would never dream of leaving me.”

“Temptation, control your ego.” Clarity had found his words, “You seem to think its them who need you, but you crave there love the most, you shake when there voices fade from you.” His silence was never empty, and he was keen to unfold his mind. “You shiver with every night that they have gone without your folly, I love them because they choose me, you love them for validation.”

“You’re a foolish and bitter old man, what kind of pleasure can you provide?” She lost her seductive flare as she was met by clarities stare. She had never prepared herself for the moment he would reciprocate a volley of his own design. “I kill the agony of broken hearts, I hide the scars of a broken past, I keep there smiles etched on there faces you make them bare those heavy burdens.”

“They only run to you to numb there skin from life’s events. You’ve given shelter from natural elements, in the darkness of your embrace” Clarity was suddenly drawn to the feature that traced her face. Her smile was losing leverage and her beauty was falling weak. Her strength was seeded in there weakness, he thrived when they had found there footing.

The flickering flame of temptation had bought their love with the vigour of virgin flames, the fiery tongues that promised warmth, but danced away with a subtle heat. He rested in the ambers that burned steady, whispering a warmth to fend off the embrace of the evening chill.

“I’ve never of thought cheapening love for the sake of a following” he said, “When they find me we will be whole, we will learn to talk, we will grow with the passing moments.” temptations eyes soaked in the words that began to fill the space between them, ” I feel the fire inside them grow to power their dreams.” His features began to soften and his eyes betrayed his cold firmness. “I will wait an eternity to fight the dark with every heart that finds me, no matter what name they know me by.”

“You will never win.” She said, “Till the day I forfeit breath, I’ll keep there hearts away from you.”

Her features firmed and her seductive tones where riddled with rigarmortis, unkind to her eyes, and clumsily laced with fear. He could see it.

He smiled.

“They are faceless in your hearts, and nameless in your eyes, I will let you have them now.” He settled his gaze, “You show them to my door, from there I show them the world.”

“were not that different you and I” she said

“You see us like the children do,” He said, “That is why they grow and leave you, they learn the difference.”

She twisted her smile, she watched him retire into his solitary wait for there arrival. Never faltering, never swayed, she danced her word to win there hearts once again.