Standing underneath the ancient chasm, time seemed so insignificant. In the amount of time we spend living only a foot of rock may be smoothed away, ending us in the Earth as a new one forms.
I write because it can be the purest form of honesty.
The window had been a curious thing for quite some time. Local myth told of a little girl who climbed through it once, never to be seen again. When the owner of the house was questioned on the matter, he simply shrugged. What nobody seemed to notice was that shrug held all the mischief of a wink… (Taken with Instagram)
Simply Complicated.
I’ve discovered some of the worst problems stem from these subjects:
That is all.
With nothing to write on, her insomnia became wordless images, things of no consequence and sense. They flashed by in a procession of mismatched detail, darting in and out too quickly for her to grasp meaning. A hint of color there, a burst of smile here - a sleepless memory slideshow, chasing away the night.
He staggered over the crest of the hill, hoping for a minute to catch his breath. He could feel the blood running down his chest where the bullet had grazed him, but there was nothing to be done about that now. All he could do now was pray to God no one followed him over the hill…
The sweet sounds of profanity in public and that split second you think you’ll miss the train…hello again, Northeast.
The Anti-Inspiration Blog
My mind is in a cloud. I can’t seem to write a thing. Words and images knock at my skull begging to come out, but the cursor blinks idly on a blank document:
In desperation I search for inspiration. Take a drive, thumb through art books, read a poem or two.
Cursor,
still,
blinks.
I look to past thoughts I’ve scribbled down and marked as things I might use, one day. Some are drunken conversation snips:
Some of them are thoughtful and glimmer prose:
Others are just running lists of…. I’m not sure….
None of them are enough to turn this maelstrom into productivity. I remember interviewing a journalist/novelist, and when I asked him how he combatted writers block, he told me: “It’s bullshit. Writers block is bullshit. You just have to sit down and make yourself do it. It’s a routine.”
Am I allowed to disagree with a man who interviewed Dustin Hoffman? Or am I bullshitting?
Whatever it is, I’ll just keep pulling from the world until I’ve got something to say about it.
It’s the high.
I was up until dawn, thinking of all those late nights that used to make me feel so fulfilled. It’s funny to look back on them now, drunken blips of monumental importance we could never remember the next day. Through a blurred headache I’d look at you and wonder, was any of it real? Or was it all a bad night of whiskey cumulating to melodrama? I never knew. I was never really sure if I cared. The only thing about you was the highs.
“Darlin’, we’ve seen it all,” your voice explains, “the good and the bad. And when we’re good, we’re really fucking good.”
So we both knew how it was when we were bad.
Really fucking.
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The opinions, stories, and overall madness of a displaced Jersey girl.
