Blogiversary || Year II
Two years. View full post »
Welcome to my blog!
“you looked at me and caught my heart; and it will never be free.”
“The sky today is a white marble tombstone marking out the cemetery of skeleton trees standing eerily silent.”
“up, up, and away she went–into the midst of the storm. the rain soaked her skin and the wind pulled her hair; away she went to wonderland. as she fell–or perhaps she flew–the wondered where she’d ever land.”
“and while the world continues spinning, I am stuck in this moment.”
as delicate and detailed as the paper wings of the butterfly perched daintily upon my finger.”
“come along darling, on an adventure. Let’s find those fairytales they always talk about and make our dreams come true.”
“and despite the prominent sunshine, it was raining in my mind..”
“I must admit, I love seeing that beautiful cityscape against the grey slate of clouds. there’s a certain aesthetic to viewing a city through the raindrops on your car window.”
“Is it raining there? it’s raining here and I thought of you.”
“she was the flower that bloomed suddenly in the ugliest corner of an abandoned garden–bringing with her the forgotten beauty that once was and the potential to become again–like the delicate kiss of Spring to the icy heart of Winter.”
This blog has been silent for far too long on account of my writer’s block and I’ve grown tired of it.
I’ve spent too long staring at an empty screen, imagining and reimagining the perfect way to share my thoughts. I’ve started too many sentences only to scribble and scratch them out halfway through.
…but no more.
I’m going to write straight through this wall in my mind. I’m not going to pause and reflect after each sentence; I’m not going to try to make these words pretty. I’m just going to write.
In the words of Jane Austen:
‘I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on till I am.’
If I wait to post things on this blog until they are perfectly modified versions of my original thoughts, I will never have anything to post at all and these last few months of silence will just keep repeating themselves until I forget what it means to be a true writer. My thoughts will all begin collecting dust. I do not yet know of what I shall continue to write on this blog, but I only know that by not writing, I am allowing to my writer’s block to win this battle.
and that… simply will not be tolerated.
scattered leaves, rustling in the uncommonly tepid November breeze, swirled and gathered at our toes. feet clad in soft velvety flats—not the typical choice for an autumn day in November, but then again… this wasn’t a typical autumn day. there was almost the hint of an Indian summer there, whispered like a rumor by the warmth of the sun. It had already snowed once a few days before, massive heavy flakes falling thick from the sky, but all evidence was gone come morning. but that was days ago. this was a new day, and a very good day. it was a sort of brown day, but a brown that had an underlying golden tone to it: besides the leaves, there was a coffee cup to be disposed of, empty but still slightly warm from the cinnamon tea latte purchased at the coffee shop around the corner. and earlier there had been deliciously warm bread and some of the best squash soup there ever was. there was also a well-loved book bag, filled with all kinds of curious items belonging to a girl in stripes—a girl with the name of the season which she was ever so fond of. and there were words that day too. lots and lots of words. for when two very good friends get together after months apart, there must be good conversation. all in all, ’twas a lovely autumnal day and a there was a lot to be thankful for
‘there was laughter
bright and abundant.
there was sandals,
and children triumphant
due to freedom,
and days that consisted
of things like
old theatres that listed
films of all time
that costs only
if you go around noontime.’