World Spins Me By

The world keeps changing and it’s changing me too. I don’t always know what it’s changing me to. If its a good thing, or I am just warping. Or maybe my vision is unclear. Maybe I need a new frame of reference. But my eyes are getting older, and maybe I need to let the other senses tell me what I see.
The rain trickles in a garden, feeding spring flowers. then summer fattens the fruit, till the children come running.
I am in the house, with a blanket over my head. I am watching the news, and I am flicking through my feed. I know I was trying to find something, but now I am just amassing information.
There must have been something more i was doing. But as I get older my memory fades. Maybe I will have to rely on my instincts instead to navigate me through.
I see the silhoettes of other people through the glowing box. Real like me, telling me about themselves even though I don’t know them. I can start to think I do. And I touch my fingers on the screen in a silent wonder. But nothing is there anyways. And I don’t really know them. I only get a snippet of a story. A fragment.
But if i get off this ferris wheel, what I was trying to do, whatever it was, really will be gone. I see myself shrinking in the mirror.


The Holy Boulder

I’m following, ” The Friday Fictioneer Challenge: Write a 100-word story based on the photo.” I heard about here:
I was challenged to write a 100 word story frmom a picture of a holy/hole-y boulder.

“The boulder with many eyes!” Tiffany said, excited. I rolled my eyes. Her expression soured. She spat in front of me. I kicked brush over. And looked at her, five inches over me.
“That’s stupid.” I reply, annoyed, tossing my hair. I was ready to be on the trail and getting home.
“Wait, really I’m not lying. It’s really special,” she said. Then I looked and saw.
“Colors on the rock, divots, they’re really eyes. Which means, it’s really alive.” I say awed. Then I spit on the ground, “I’m Leaving,” I shout, then stomp off, kicking debris up everywhere.


The picture I got from Unsplash by nathan-dumlao

A Place in Your Arms

What Place do you remember?

I remember being in your arms. real or imagined. Tanned, strong, warm. The fire is crackling and popping in front of us and you are whispering me how much you love me in my ear as I grin. Sound moves the air around me and tickles my ear and neck. Warm. It feels so nice as you play with my arm, creating the gentlest circles, carving paths there. But I know in the back of my mind not to believe you. Though I have no reason to think this. Because I know you are probably a great person. You seem like you are. Something about how nice you feel, makes my mind riot in believing. But the glass of wine, and the gentle rhymic cracle of the fire humming through the air, and the strong arms coiling me tighter, turns off my fighting reflex. And I start to sink instead.

I feel myself falling asleep, gentle sounds, feelings, smell around, and those words still on the tip of my thoughts, you repeating them over and over like a chant to me as I drift down lower and lower. And I am going down, till i find am in water with seaweed in my mouth and hair and I’m spitting it out, salt. And looking about.
Bluish water, pebbles underfoot, and watery flowy plants.

And then I rise a moment later, and I pull up out of it, and wake up back in the apartment. And you are gone. I put on my flip flops and wander out into the apartment tentatively looking around. But I am met with empty corners instead. I am going outside without a thought on it, the feel of the cold air, and smell of the smog both hitting me at once, the loud honking and engines on the side of me. People walk and push past me, and look angrily at me cause I won’t get out of their way. And I walk like this. In this haze. Where did you go. I keep looking as if on a beach, if I keep at it I will find it. The treasure with golden blocks inside.

But there the streets wind like a maze that I am too tired to pursue. And so I sit on a bench next to a man rolling a cigarette. I put my head in my hands and I cry. I wanted so much for that dream to be true.


On Being Married

As a married person, I’d say, sometimes being married is as close and sweet as staring into a bonfire on a cool night. But sometimes it just rages like a fire cutting through all the things in your house that you care about. And I’m in there running, batting at everything with a towel. Trying to stop the fire before it spirals out and consumes the house whole.

Sometimes marriage is honest and beautiful, like lily white flowers in a vase, simple and sweet and pure. Things go easy, We laugh and smile, realizing, I don’t know how, but through all this time, we maybe have grown closer.

Other times it seems like a lie I just have to get through. Another day, another month, another year. A lump is hiding in my throat and I know that I can’t let them find.

Sometimes it’s a waiting game. Sitting in a white room with a round clock on the wall clicking noisily by, and I look at the other people in the room, and wonder what they are in for. Other times a paint by the numbers. I open the manual and follow the rules and like that they are happy. And I wonder, don’t they see how mechanical that was. So often it doesn’t seem like they do. Just the doing of the things is what you do, and it runs soundly.

Then it’s been months of hardly speaking to each other. A grunt here, a request there, a slight scolding look or just a look.

The house becomes silent as a crypt, like it was bound up with stretched cotton covering all the surfaces or thin gossamer cob webs, the white slowly dotting out all the rest. Covering our mouths of all the thoughts in our head we’d never dare to say. Things that would start other things. Little matches everywhere ready to spark fires.

We close those things in our hearts quiet and secure from the prying eyes of partners who would never understand and would bruise it. We both are doing this, hiding from each other and yet peeking around corners.

Then something changes again. Another change.

I wake up to a new pale morning, and see them sleeping oblivious to my presence as i watch the rhythm of breathing that keeps em alive. And I wonder how they are still there at all. And I don’t know why, but I feel happy.

Starting Writing Vs Really Writing

I just wrote a snippet of what could be the start of a story, and of course it was very exciting cause I could picture the whole story in my head.. But do I really want to do all that is involved to turn it out into a full length story??
Cause writing a complete story is so much harder then starting one.
But a story you have to think about each character and what they are all doing and where it will be going.  When you start to write things flow.

Anyway, I might turn it into a story now that I have written it, in my spare time (cause lately I am focusing on the 3d art aspects more then the writing as of late.)  But I think there is always spare time somewhere in the day and maybe I can sneak in something from the bits and pieces of my already fractured up day..

Anyways, in short, writing a book, is not as easy as starting one.  But I think it is doubly rewarding to have something you can say you’ve done.  I love the feeling of finishing things, and that is my rush in my day, to say I have gotten something of value done.
I love to read my own words on the page, and know I wrote them, and like them.  So I think it is worth.  But it’s not easy.