Is it a bit too early in the day for this? Ah what the heck! *grins*
To begin again is always the hardest thing.
Facing that blank page is daunting; it screams out in its purity, gives rise to palpitations and forces us to consider our options for the first time in a long time. It’s easier to carry on the story, pick up where you left off last time. The knowledge that you can recap and maybe gain an idea that you were heading towards, so that you can carry on with this in mind. It’s easier and comforting, when you have your base characters and plot worked out you can somehow spring from this much smoother than beginning afresh. Whether this is because the carrying on from old stock just means you are merely filling or that it just makes you more secure: I’m unsure. Perhaps it’s the opposite and it’s the new beginning that is just too daunting. There is too much potential to fail, too much that could go wrong, and so, under the pressure of all ‘the could be’, we simply freeze.
IT’s just that initial burst, that first nudge, the one little but huge step to get us across the starting line, once this happens then we can easily adapt to the new scenario – yet sometimes it seems too hard to start.
Quite possibly the largest number of singletons or loners found within one group at any one time. This quaint little coffee shop, a hive of activity for writers and readers alike. They swarm from trains and buses, tumble in from the street to find themselves a lone corner or quiet table from which to write their lives on the pages. Words conjoining to find meaning within inked lines, a master watching the beauty, as they swirl into being, taking form in their growth. Gnashing and gnarling, devouring everything in proximity before their inevitable death; then a refill of espresso to help the writer’s block.
It wasn’t the scent of his cologne that had sent her pulse racing, it was him. Pure, unadulterated, essence of him. (more…)
She went to a dark place.
She went there alone.
To hide beneath the dusty shores, wade through murky undergrowth and delve into the icy lakes of solitude. She went there alone. Wrapped herself in a heavy tarpaulin of sunbleached skin, worn with age yet heavy enough to secure her down, in the pools, of despair , that she found – alone.
After trawling through the deserts of time, her hand outstretched for aid, that was never found. No water of rejuvenation trickled through her salt cracked lips, her weary bones found no comfort in the angles of the rocks of contemplation. After a time, she learned to counter the winds of fortune, turn away from the blasts: her spine bare for the impact.
If you look to the marks on the soles of her feet , blackened by ashes, solidified by infliction: know that these are not the marks of her failure, but reminders of her strength. Mottled with scars of endurance: she is a marked woman yet not beaten.
She does not submit, she will not yield.
She went to a dark place
She was alone.
Ever get those days when you feel on the very edge of change and you fear somewhere deep inside that something unknown is about to snap and leave you blowing about in the wind. You get that little unsettling feeling in your stomach as it lurches towards the what ifs and the who knows, and the knowledge that you are not in the safe and secure place that you imagined yourself to be in.
The silence is the worst part.
I can deal with shouting, or abuse, even violence
– but it’s the silence that gets me.
That simple act of muteness,
cut off from the source, unable to decipher,
blinds drawn around the truth
– this is the worst part
It cuts through ears and ideas,
slicing finely through facts and fiction,
tugging at heart cords and hope.
I’m lost with days
I just don’t know
If I should come
Or I should go
It’s been three days
Since I last slept
It’s clear my brain
Now seems inept
It’s floating now
a caffeine haze
Words in fog
Lips are twitching
Try to focus
All that fear
I know it’s stuck
Inside my head
But please I need
To go to bed.
He was never mine not really, not where it mattered.
For the most part, I am a shareholder. A greedy coveter grasping a ticket, a little piece of him that I believe is mine, until the next time. The next spin of the wheel, eagerly watching the bounce, wondering where the white ball will land, wondering if my time is near. Alas, lady luck was never a friend to me. And so shall he be, forever more on the move,free to roam to whichever ever table he pleases. I can but sit and watch agog whilst the women sigh and feign over him. My stomach knotting to see blood red fingertips brush his skin. My scorn rises as perfumed beauties fawn and blush to see him pass by, they even lean in to smell his sweet scent at times. my discontent clearly shown, I cannot help it.
He is not mine any more yet once he was and I am loathe to forget. The night we shared on the poker table, I recall the revelry in his caress. How I would pull him to my lips with each jubilant squeal. I remember the fire of anticipation before we touched, our first meeting of indecency, our indiscretion of sorts.
Our last meeting was so long ago yet still I yearn for you, still I sit and watch you work your magic on others, hoping one day your delights will come back to me. praying for a day you will return so I can love you better, and not let you slip so easily through my fingertips..
Over at Linda’s blog for the prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “egg.”
I had some train time without internet to kill so this prompt was a lovely thing to fill the gap, thank you Linda 🙂
What it the chicken of the egg that came first? Obviously those cunning folk among us know that the answer to this age old question is the egg. Ok,so it wasn’t a chicken egg, but a lizard or fish egg is still an egg never the less and why should they count of any less value. It reminds me of a poems I once read as a child and whilst I enjoyed the rhyme enjoy to remember it, I guess at the time that I never really understood it.
The codfish lays ten thousand eggs
The humble hen lays one
The codfish never cackles
to tell usewhat she’s done
But we all scorn the codfish
Whilst the humble hen we prize
Which only goes to show you that it pays to advertise
But isn’t it a great little poem and actually shines quite a truth on real life: those that shout the loudest do seem to get more out of life, whilst the quiet hard workers continue to strive on and get passed over. (walks away from the rant)
Now I remember this poem from a poetry book that I used to have as a young child, I can’t remember the book title or the poet and maybe even some of the words are incorrect but it is from an old memory. This isn’t the only poem I remember from being a child, which I think is testement to how poetry can really make an impact on people, or children even. I think it was the rhyme that made it stick, along with others such as Gerry the giraffe and Rhubarb Teb. Even the old Oliphant which I only found out as an adult came from a book: Tolkien – Lord of the Rings. When I think to myself of all the poems and song lyrics that I can remember it’s actually a fair amount of memory, yet I cannot seem to remember where I leave keys or recall conversations I have had the previous day: what’s with that?
Sometimes my mind draws such a blank on simple everyday things and I can’t work out how it can be so good for silly non important facts yet I can’t retain information that would be helpful. Perhaps my brain is just wired to prefer absorbing enjoyment rather than function.
So the prompt was egg right? *makes mental note to purchase Easter eggs in the sales to top up the chocolate supplies*