Tag Archives: writing

Nature of Happiness

16 Jan

Deep below, under the stubborn ice and mouths frozen shut, the roots of life still linger. Slowly, they string their fine fingers upwards, infiltrate the army of snow flakes besieging us. Those fingers, you can feel them caressing your skin when you fall your cheek pressed to the iron-cold ground; sprigs and sprouts of onion being born, the sweet-tasting sap brewing, the birch babies and oak saplings still playing hide-and-seek, until the day that earth’s anticipation, its certainty of spring stronger than thousand ice ages, breaks all winter’s barriers and blossoms into light leaves of coltsfoot, pansy, primrose and thistle. But not quite yet my dear, not quite yet. First, we have to live through this concerto of whispering winds, nothing but rumours of life budding. That way we can have two summers; one blossoming in our ears and one, in time, blooming up from undeground, inviting us to a flower field dance.  

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Waiting for the spring is a sweet expectation, it is like waiting at the train station for an old friend to arrive. Peace and love, and warmth to melt your winter fingers! Take care.

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Landscapes of loneliness -Daily Prompt: Flawed

13 Dec

Today’s Daily Prompt: Flawed:

What is your worst quality?

I worry, a lot, too much. It stops me, makes me halt. It makes me hesitate, agitate, doubt. It has even stopped me writing for the past week. Post per day, that’s how it used to be, now it’s turned into hiding a post per day. I just want every dot to be perfect.

But this time I just decided to let it go. Here, I have poured all my worries out for you. I hope you can relate to it. No, actually, maybe not. I don’t wish ‘over-worrying’ to anyone, it makes everything so tangled up inside your head.

So instead, I hope you like it.

 

Landscapes of loneliness

 

A straightjacket of thoughts

clutching at me, biting at my cheeks

To silence me, as I dwell

In my imagined landscapes of loneliness

 

Everchanging, freezing glaciers

Melting into choking sand dunes

I tiptoe across this Sahara of sore memories

Like blisters pulsing under my skin

 

I’m falling deep down

Into Marianas Trench of my mind

Into misery and doubt, losing touch

Your touch, and all sight of reality

 

As  I imagine all my bad guides

Pestering fears and throbbing shivers

Shaking my heart, turning it into flaking plaster

Under the weight of these worries

 

What am I?

 

Lost, worrier or a warrior

Hopes in hiding, longing for love

Searching for a gateway, crying out

For the light winds of freedom

 

Inspiration perspiration- sweating over creativity

2 Dec

 

What inspires you? Where do you draw passion and ideas from when you’re not surfing high on the wave of creativity? What melts your mental blocks?

 

To me, it’s probably nature, the harmony and strenght it possesses. But since we have gone from Winter bliss to winter blizzard:

The view outside my window on Friday morning. The obscure blur is the snow falling every which way possible.

The view outside my window on Friday morning. The obscure blur is snow falling every which way possible.

 

I have found refuge in art instead.  Munch is one of my all time favourite’s, although not the most cheerful bloke he surely does know how to express sentiments with colours! I just love the feeling in his paintings, so aching and melancholy. Also, one of the reasons I love music, art, literature, poetry, all of it, is because it shows beautifully just how original and yet how bound together we all are.  Your visions and feelings and ideas on the artwork below might be totally different from mine or from Munch’s, and yet as we both look at it, we are connected by it. Isn’t that quite miraculous?

 

Girl on the Bridge by Edvard Munch, I do not own any rights.

Girl on the Bridge by Edvard Munch, I do not own any rights.

 

The feeling of connection, the feeling of being part of something and of belonging,  is a precious feeling. I think it might just be happiness, or the root of it. Because we weren’t created to be alone.

And that’s why I got together with Hasty to write another poetry duet for you! I hope you enjoy reading it, and feeling it, as much as I enjoy writing them. Poetry duets have totally surprised me, they’re like a breathing dialogue of inspiration, so enrichening! And they always give you new perspective to writing as well. And isn’t that just what creativity is, a fresh angle or an idea?

Or what do you think, how would you define creativity?

 

Free falling

by Hastywords and me

 

Your mourning, blue lips

And the searching transparency

Of the morning light

Pushes us under the rhythm of life

 

Free falling, closed eyes

Into desecrated fields

Bodies sleeping cold and blind

Waiting for the ghosts of truth

 

All those gaunt prisoners on display

Stalking roads and alleyways

Worn out too many times

By your trembling feet, by mine

 

Spiral clouds melting daylight

The moon covered in dust

Seekers find refuge in memories

Hiding trauma behind their eyes

 

Unseeing days, blind nights

Static, empty landscapes like

Blank kaleidoscopes of the past

Washing out the mermaids of rebirth

 

My red lips of blazing fire kiss the land

Torching the rotting decay, then I cry

Upon the sand, springtime to start again

Filling reservoirs of revival in their minds

Playing God – Daily Prompt

20 Nov

The Daily Prompt- Coming to A Bookshelf Near You

Write a summary of the book you’ve always wanted to write for the back cover of its dust jacket.

Playing God

Have you ever lost someone to death?

He had.

In his dreams he could see her falling, the car like a raging bull that sends her spinning, throws her up, up, higher. She glides through the air, gracefully at first, the wind humming peacefully… but then she starts to fall, her limbs looking all mangled and dislocated. An unhuman crash rings out as the wind screen pierces her head open, the tenderness of her temples forever disturbed. She falls down the bonnet, falls down into nothingness, into death.

But seeing her die in rewind is not the most painful part. No,  the most painful moment is the blissful forgettance that follows, as he wakes up panting and then fools himself into believing that it was just a dream, just a horrible dream. And as he reaches to her side of the bed, just to feel her soft hair, all he finds is a cold pillow. It still has the shape of her head imprinted on it, a solid proof of the nights they have spent together, curled up in love.  So he listens to her tapping downstairs, waits to hear the kettle boiling and breakfast plates clinking, just like every morning. But the house stays silent now, the house stays empty.

In that moment, in that hammer stroke of reality, death finally sniffs him out. It gatecrashes his heart, moves in with its heavy luggage and makes itself sadistically comfortable. That is the moment he remembers that love is forever lost.  That she is forever lost.

But what if she isn’t? What if she survived?

That is the question he has to ask himself when an unknown woman suddenly walks through his door. That stranger, she carries a tint of familiarity on her face. That woman, she moves like her. She smiles like her.

Then she confesses that she is her.

Is he going to believe her, welcome her back? Is he going to take that hope, embrace the sweet solace it brings? Is he going to love her as if she really is his lost love?

Or is he going to turn her away, tear apart her words, forever carrying that little regret in his heart? That little doubt, that bittersweet seed of a newly found faith in life. That one, burning question:

What if she really is her, resurrected?

Romantic Monday: Unravelling (and writer’s block, the devil)

12 Nov

It has been a bit quiet round here. As much as I would have loved to post, my self-criticism has stopped me from writing. During the weekend my worry-free expression seemed to turn itself into a nitty-gritty, grammar picking, nasty perfectionist troll whenever I tried to write.

I wrote a post which I then trashed. I wrote another one. That  one I published for an hour or so (progress)… and then trashed it too. Every blogger’s nightmare-pattern was emerging.

But now that my trash folder has been fully fed for a while, I told myself: This is not going to become a vicious cycle. Today I’m going to write.

Because today is a special day, today is another Romantic Monday. And no way am I going to let fear of failure and silly doubts spoil romance for me. That is a good advice for both writing and love, I guess.

So you’re going to get a poem today. And I also have a photo for you, to shoo away your writer’s blocks and console you if you too have been struggling and wordless:

Photocredit: southernfriedchildren.blogspot.com

So whether it is a blog, NaNoWriMo or a particularly vicious essay you’re working on, just write! Even if you’re scared, even if it all comes out as a waterfall of gibberish, don’t let it stop you.

You have potential. Don’t stop believing. (I’m sorry if you now have the Glee version of that song in your head.)

And now I’m going to practise what I preach. So here is for another Romantic Monday! Yikes, I hope you like it!

Unravelling

I do not know your lips

The tumbling currents of words

Flowing behind them, the wild winds

They have so boldly met or

The raw, pulsing secrets of life

They hold in hiding

Your lips are a mystery

And yet, I do not fear

Their uncertainty, their silence

And the painful erosion they can bring

I do not fear to trace all the seams

Of this frosty, fragile beginning

Simply because your lips, they exist

And they could be my shield

And their smile my jewel amulet

They leave me gushing

Like I had a jolting baby bird

Jailed inside my chest, still warm

From being born into its nest

Your lips unravel me

They invite me, they hold my breath

Call out my emotions

On a tight thread, on a journey

To become the pilgrims of your heart

And my laugh follows yours

It is a soft-sounding wind chime

So gently struck by your lips

Fooled into singing

This post is part of a beautiful Romantic Monday-craze, find out more about it here.

Happy Birthday Dracula!

8 Nov

Okay, I know that technically it is not Dracula’s birhday, but his creator’s. Actually do vampires even celebrate birthdays, they’re living dead after all right? (Does that mean they never get birthday cake? How sad, no wonder they want a bit of your warm blood. Or maybe all the vampire kiddos have black pudding for pudding on their birhday, who knows.)

But since I missed out on all the Halloween haunting in the blogworld, passing Bram Stoker’s birthday without a nod would have been a disgrace. I mean, this is the man who began the vampire craze, who gave inspiration to such things as Twilight… thank him for that or slap him, matters of taste are debatable.

Anyway, let’s get some guests to this birthday party. H.P Lovecraft should certainly be invited, his stuff is so scary even Stoker might turn in his grave in an attempt to escape. Shall we hear some of it?

 

If this didn’t get you scared enough, for extra chill factor someone can be positioned behind you and then attack you during the ending climax. (Thanks brother!)

There is a few reasons I have come to love Lovecraft. Firstly, his stories are different from the horror conventions of today that seem to penetrate especially some of the blockbusters; they are not gory, they’re not full of blood and guts and flying heads, they’re not spiced up with serial killing rampage. Instead, they can appear very pedantic at times, like the beginning of  The Rats In The Walls when you get the family history of the main character and all the dates. And yet, even if they’re full of detail, they still possess that ambiguity, that abstract feeling, that primal feeling of fear. And not only a fear towards what’s going on in the story, but a more vague fear, the fear of unknown dogging us. It is deliciously psychological, the details making his work scarily believable and realistic while the lack of rationality, the lack of any justification as why such monstrosities leap forward, stays with us long after we finish reading. It is this combination that makes the fear feel so real, that pulls you into the story, strangles you, as you feel it closing in on you claustrophobically.

Another reason I love Lovecraft is the love he has for his craft.

Sorry I just had to, the guy has a funny name. But it is true;  I admire how he manages to capture emotions with his writing. When I read and write, I’m always interested in the lexical choices because I would like to find a way to not only describe emotions, but to relate them, in all their essence and abstract qualities. Anyone who has felt something big, something all-encompassing and overwhelming inside them knows that it can be really hard to find words for that something. How do we convey all the tiny nuances we feel? How do make sure that when we’re writing them down, we are not doing just that: writing them down, reducing them, shrinking them? How do you find fitting words?

We have all struggled with these questions, whether it is because we love to write or because we’ve been in a perplexing social situation. Or because we have experienced something massive, something so very unexplainable, like the loss of a loved one or the finding of one. Something that makes us wonder the hows and whys of this world. So, if emotions are individuals, how do we find a way to convey them to a greater audience?

Lovecraft seemed to know how.  When I read his work I find myself asking: How, how does he make these emotions, these scary visions so real to us? So tangible, so breathing?

Perhaps because they were so very real to him. He had first hand experience from his night terrors.  And who is to say that the things he witnessed are not as real as the sun on the sky and the ground under our feet? Isn’t perception as debatable as taste?  There is more… Is there more?

Listen to ( or read if you prefer) From Beyond and decide.

“What do we know,” he had said, “of the world and the universe about us? Our means of receiving impressions are absurdly few, and our notions of surrounding objects infinitely narrow. We see things only as we are constructed to see them, and can gain no idea of their absolute nature. With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend the
boundlessly complex cosmos, yet other beings with wider, stronger, or different range of senses might not only see very differently the things we see, but might see and study whole worlds of matter, energy, and life which lie close at hand yet can never be detected with the senses we have. I have always believed that such strange, inaccessible worlds exist at our very elbows, and now I believe I have found a way to break dawn the barriers.”

 

 

And now, your turn, who else should be invited to this birthday party and why? Whose writing do you admire?

Romantic Monday: The creator

5 Nov

It’s pretty late here and in Australia it’s practically Tuesday, but hey there’s no better time for poetry, romance and tea than the time of twilight.  So now that you have loved the whole Monday through, you can top it off with this piece. But don’t topple off out of sheer romance, I wouldn’t want you to hurt your pretty knees. And if it’s only morning for you, then the better! I’m going to be really clichéic (yes, that is a word, from now on at least) and say: Feel the love coming your way!

And if you didn’t pass out by the soppiness of the remark above, then you might be safe to read on. I seem to be full of rainbows and candy floss today, so it’s going to get pretty romantic. You have been warned.

 

The creator

 

You tattoeed your touch

onto my skin.

 

It stayed there, yerning, lingering

after your fingers fell accidentally,

hurriedly down my back and

the ripples they created met my spine

 

though it was a guitar spring,

moulded it into sweet music,

into reckless birds and breathless

moments like silver leaves, fluttering

 

and your sigh gave flight to them,

blew them up, up to meet the wind

and all the twinkling bells of this galaxy

as they rang with the brightest laughter,

 

and to this choir of cosmos our lips joined

and our hands ajoined, and our worlds sang too,

now in harmony, and I felt the spring born

from your fingertips humming inside me

 

when you tattoeed your love

onto my skin.

 

All the other beautiful shades of romance can be found here.

Wishing you a lovely Romantic Monday no. 3!