The morning sun rose like a humpbacked cat rising through the thick foliage of torn trees and sloped streets. A man arose as well, as he always had and as he always will. His life has been mundane, monotonous, episodic. The mattress on the floor seems to be the only support in his dormant life. Walls painted with sorrow and sordid quality dresses the atmosphere and toils with the man’s voice. Walls that have an uneven surface; a mirror to the man’s routine. There is little to no furnishing in this small apartment, and about the only noticeable piece is so because of its rotten smell, that of the chair in the corner of the room. The man ruffled his shaggy head of hair and scratched his ribcage, as he arose from the side of the mattress. Air slithered from the overhanging air vent above him and galvanized his senses. But he came back down to Earth with the scorching burn of his abdomen. He looked at the doctor’s business card that is pinned to the wall facing him, and scoffs. It’s been a constant nuisance but there’s been no financial levity in his life to make such an investment. Life trickles down a drowning stream and collapses into a monumental hole that bellows. Demons juristic the man’s subconscious, amd any notion that follows. He stares out the only window in his apartment, that constantly fogs and whistles in the night. Through the window he can see the main road that trails into the downtown plaza, where he can find gullible, vacant minded individuals to pick pocket. In the plaza, theres a center water sprout that superimposes any other financial investment that the small community has put their money towards. He can hear small children playing in the community playground right across from the plaza, and hears the morning song of the birds trickling through. The man dressed himself with his overcoat in his rather empty closet, and some jeans that have seen the worst of times. He walks out the creaky door and down the stairs and out through the front, where he can feel the stinging breeze of the start of Winter and the plastered dew on the knee high grass that dress the yards of the apartment. The plaza to his left, along with the playground, and foreward is the meaningless little road that few drive on. Above his heads the massive trees that are still upright although always seem to be on the verge of tipping over. Osstensibly, there was no auspicious value in notifying a soul, but he was always tempted to do so because of the ominous overganging tree right above his apartment window.
…That’s the silence, that’s the pondering, that’s the hesitation…there it goes again, you desire the words. The story, the plot, it doesn’t come. You write the first chapter, you feel brilliant, as brilliant as you can be. This the best work. Charles Dickens, Hemingway, and Albert Camus all would be jealous of my prose. But the thing is, they wouldn’t be. You wait a day, then a few days, then all of a sudden you’ve spent the last month working on a mere 5,000 words. You jumble some pretext of why you can’t continue on but really the only one satisfied by your excuses our yourself. Where’s the sophistication? I must’ve left my tea at home. So the boiling entity that is creativity is befuddled by this thing called reality. The grounded culture that negatively pulls down your thoughts, covering the mass ideas with a curtain of blank stares, and obsolete personality. The curtain that drowns rich blood in the cold winter of the mind and the hot summer swelters behind. It’s the cold mess of mishaps that shred to pieces and the mostly wanted calls of hope that get lost in the mess. Instead of being the captain of your own ship, the captain of your own soul, your humbled by all this, overwhelmed by all the; but that wouldn’t make sense, and what ifs, and the they wouldn’t like that.
I’m realizing that a good story does not go about being written. Rather it has already been wrote. You must unravel the characters, and stir up the thick clay to find the story that they find themselves drenched in. There is no repercussion for letting the story be found in your mind. It would be a tragedy for it not to be found. With that in mind I’ll let my ideas settle, let the characters speak for themselves, and tell me their stories. For there might be carping but that will be no real matter because this story is the one that should’ve been told from the start. It seems like a conundrum at points, the fact that you can’t continue, but it is whispering to you, it breeds deep within your walls. The story is inside you. Just let it breathe.
P.S. This sort of was a self motivating speech to myself, but I am happy that you guys are here with me. Hope this helped 🙂
I don’t know the date anymore. The days have passed by like a swift breeze in the night. I’ve done everything I can to get to these people. Their faces now seem more and more aggravated every time I see them again. The pedigree is still unknown, their hair grows long and tangled, but they wear clothes, and dress themselves with a reasonable, rational logic that far exceeds any cavemen like capability. So this leads me to believe they are from some land we never found, some place that went under the radar. I haven’t shaved in weeks, and they make me feel self conscious about my looks, because their faces, for some reason, are clean, and professional. They look at me in a comical way when I sit down next to them and begin recording my observations. They do not communicate verbally but their eyes speak volumes. What I still find extraordinary is their lack of response to the technology I hold in front of them. It’s almost as if they have seen these advances before. I hope to not discomfit them while I continue to inquire more questions. One of them has begun to follow me, and track my every move. He lays on his back, while I type, and he climbs the trees overhead, as I walk in the mornings. He has these grounded eyes that capture the very essence of curiosity that keeps me motivated. I have sent my findings back to headquarters. They haven’t replied for days, but I am hoping they are just waiting for a justifiable reason for me to continue to use their system for my explorations. I think they might be worried though.
A discriminating sunrise hits the peak of the hills every morning. It hides behind a large tree, with branching limbs. Now there is a cry in the night and a weary eye the next day. Now there’s a flash of emotion and a lost soul. It’s difficult to say when it will end or when it had begun. The world has diminished the very essence of life to a polarizing tool of destruction. A broken soul is now washed away because they have no comfort in the open. A young mother wakes one morning and drowns in toil, because she can’t feel the presence of the son she had held the day before. A father comes home from a long day at work, and has no idea what is happening. He calls for his son, and has that anticipation in his gut of the image of his face. He laughs and calls out for his son once more. A game of hide and seek, he assumes. Like always. He looks all around the house, through the pantry, around the corner, in the garage, in the laundry room. He’s smirking. “You’ve gotten good boy!” He decides to look in his room up the stairs. His shirt stained with the long work day’s work, and his eye’s wandering like a gracious young man receiving his first kiss, or his first car. The stairs heavy on his legs and back. He’s a young man, married just a year ago. When he sets foot at the top of the stairs, he smelt the perfume of his sweet wife. He heard commotion, and a clangor behind the closed door of his son’s room. He was now worried. He heard tears and felt the fear. He opened the door cautiously. On the floor by the bedside was his wife, the mother of his son, in tears, choking under the weight of the moment. “What’s wrong?” She closes her eyes and points towards the TV screen. The news channel running, he collapsed when he saw it. It was the name of his son, identified as the victim of a terrible destruction. He lay there next to his wife, holding her tightly. Hoping that he will come back. That maybe he will be given back from the heavens, like he is a stolen soul, a hopeful restitution that would never come.
Social media clammers, his son’s phone lays at the head of the bed buzzing. Facetious talk down newsfeed, some sympathy, some cruel tweets, and a revulsion amongst a majority. The father’s ears ring and his throat feels tight. A tear falls onto the bed sheets and slithers onto the newly installed wooden floorboards. The tears feel like a piece of his life escaping him. His arms grow heavy, as does his wife’s. They lay dead, void of life. Any more indication of their boy’s death would be superfluous, because they’ve gone through it all, but the TV, the men and women on the screen continue to discuss. Then in a matter of days, it passes over like a terrible storm. The heart still torn but now another story is out there, but there boy is still that constant missing piece. The deluge of raining fear settles within the household, and the tears now blood. The compatibility now gone between the couple. They gather their things, and burn down the past. The wooden panels crumble and the TV collapses. The screen of flames mask their emotions at the moment. They both feel empty, that is about the only thing they feel they share. The only thing they had taken with them out of that house, was the family gun. The morning was young that day, they stand before the burning house, gripping each other with envy of their past selves. A few tweets are sent out around the friendly neighborhood, and the clouds converge overhead. The man holds the gun to his wife’s forehead, and she tightly shuts her eyes. The slither of sunlight that slithered through the small voids of the clouds, had beat down on the outer coating of the weapon, exuding the morning heat onto the palms of the man. His palms now sweating, and his heart beating through his chest, he obliged with the inevitable evil that was to commence. A pulsing indention when he pulled the trigger and a recoil that turned the man’s wrist back, as his wife’s body propel backward. Birds fly from the foliage in the front yard. He blows out some air and swallows his fear and turns the weapon on himself. The end had come for him as well. His eyes fixated on the barrel of the gun, then he did it. Two dreaded, lost souls shredded to pieces, lay on the uneven pavement. The heart that was thumping through the man’s chest no more, and the tears that fell from the woman’s soul only hidden beneath the surface. It was only expedient now for the aid, the help to come, but they did not come for some time, only the bad weather did. The storm drew it’s sorrow onto the two figures down below. Their skin now wizened in the broken moment. They were buried by their son. Only a few attended their funeral, but many implied they would be there in spirit.
The grass lay still the next morning, as if it had some things to figure out, and the sun now seemed dimmer. The burned house was still as it was. It stuck out like a sore thumb, and the wind passed by it with no worry because life went on, or that’s what they say it does. It was difficult to tell if there was any remorse, any melancholy that was real. It felt real but nature did its turn as it always did, following its own schedule, and washing away any evidence of the past. The flames drew away, and the phone that lay on the head of the bed wash away with it. It now is set on the head of the tomb stone, gravely staring at its owner, waiting to be held, to be in a position of comfort. Dappled stains of blood lay on the curtain of society and everyone attempts to wash it away. Not all the scars are perspicuous, some are hidden. So riots fight, and things continue. Protests take hold of the moment, and take influence by history’s notions, but still it continues. An omnipresent guilt reigns supreme over everyones head, and a ominous eye watches the field of yielding crime. But here comes the sunrise again, and the moon hides behind.
Polarity can dwell inside. It is easy to be philosophical when life seems to be evolving every second, every minute. Are we the only constant? Or are we stuck where we are set? Can an imperial force overcome a do gooder? Of course because by the force of nature, it only becomes an inevitable force, and then an inevitable entity is born. There’s addiction, peer pressure, ingrained motives, social cliques, and more. You wake up in the morning, and you don’t want to be known as a dull human being, one that stays still, one that is monochromatic, in every sense of your life. So you crumble up all your pieces and put them in a jar, hoping to call it art or something. In reality, it could be art, or it could be only your perception of potential. Maybe there is something more behind the curtain. With the intention of growing, you throw out that jar. What do you have then? What is there then? A plenitude of struggle? A battery on the verge of running out of time? Do you resort to the basic human instinct and look only for the simplistic qualities of life; on the necessary?
The thrill of the moment, and the adventure of the edge. That is a resort for some. There’s an addictive mind that caresses life with a fragile touch. A vulnerable touch. a touch that conquers many to lay still, to recluse the body to a state of solitude no individual should suffer. Do you become the former or the latter? Is there something different? If you throw out that jar? What could you do with this life? Do you stipple with the horizon and call out the sunrise when your hungry for a beautiful picture? Do you laugh with the moon out but whistle when the day comes? There’s despite, enrage, inspiration, treating the youthful rejuvenation of the heart that now beats fast in the rhythmic song of nature. So is there a time of peace? In this time of seclusion? I think that is when you can find inspiration. When creativeness calls home, that is where I can go. It is deeper than what you might think. It is deeper than that abstract painting, and that coiled tree. Henceforth if we want to find it we must go deeper, (it must be noted, some of this what I am speaking of, is inspired by many, most notably that of David Lynch) to find it. So do you run with it? How would you justify the madness that ensues? The extreme culmination of all ideas within. The creative mind bomb that explodes. Justifiably so, you research the answers, you attempt to find sympathy with the others, but the reality is, you can’t. Can you change? Is it black and white? Is it living alone or dying the most noble of ways? Killing a man within to grow a different one. Sure, why not? A rambling can only go so far. And this is that stopping point.