Prompt from ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) promptlywriting |
[August 22, 2006 @ 12:43am] |
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The Ties that Bind
Eh, I'm not that keen on it. I could do better.Just messed around for about twenty minutes at most.
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| Dictionary |
[August 18, 2006 @ 1:23pm] |
trauma noun (traumas or traumata) 1 medicine a a physical injury or wound; b a state of shock that is sometimes brought on by a physical injury or wound and which manifests in a lowering of the body's temperature, confusion, etc.
2 psychiatry & psychoanal a an emotional shock that may have long-term effects on behaviour or personality; b the condition that can result from this type of emotional shock.
3 loosely any event, situation, etc that is stressful, emotionally upsetting, etc.
ETYMOLOGY: 17c: Greek, meaning 'wound'.
You're stronger than you seem, and you are not alone.
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| Experimentation |
[August 15, 2006 @ 5:38pm] |
The Narrator
(that was the title I'd started out with anyway...as for whether it's apt now, I don't know
I breathe thoughts and inhale language.
I don’t always know what to make of myself, or what I think. Sometimes I have difficulty writing it all down… my mind travels quicker than I write, so fast, so quickly, at an unintelligible speed… until they all become one sentence, one word, one letter and I don’t even know what I was trying to say anyway.
Nonsensical? Intelligible? Who knows? I never remember my own tales. Never recorded, never spoken, never told. Meaningless.
Other tales are easier to tell.
Snaking around grammar and spelling, hiding in the houses of full stops and apostrophes, making you wait. Hidden, apparent, flitting past the corner of your eye while you try to catch it. It lives here, between the lines.
Meaning. My words? Flat. Empty. Wordless.
What are words without meaning?
Meaning without words? A slight of hand, a tug of the sleeve, a sardonic smile… a picture painted with your fingers.
So I watch. I listen. I read. I see. I take meaning, and create my own. Or attempt to. It doesn’t always work. How mean. How average. Apt for one who is scenery.
I could write the stories of your lives, because I have none of my own. I could create a spider’s web of the strings tying us together and watch droplets stick to it. I could be a thousand people, but here I am. I am I, I am me, I am myself, no one else, not you, not her, not he, not they, but I.
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| DELIVER ME FROM SWEDISH FURNITURE |
[July 29, 2006 @ 4:43pm] |
This is your life. Good to the last drop. Doesn't get any better than this. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.
Tyler Durden, Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
Let's not beat around the bush.
I'm an adolescent, I'm meant to be cynical and moody about life. I'm meant to feel that quotes like the above 'speak volumes' about my current state.
After all, at 17 years old, I still care enough to feel indignant about the possibility that I am not 'a beautiful and unique snowflake'.
I used to be a fairly positive, and naive person. While things weren't clear to me, I could seperate things into black and white, good and bad. When you discover the grey areas, you become confused. When you go beyond grey and realise that there's a whole spectrum of colours you've been ignoring all along... that's a bit of a mindfuck.
Such is life. I'm not the first to say this, and this entire entry is pretty much cliched bullshit, even this sentence. Nevermind.
I met up with an old friend today, who knows about how much writing meant to me, once upon a time. I commented that I wished writing could come as easily to me as it did then; i.e that I would stop writing shit and start writing something good.
I thought maybe I'd 'lost' something, some sort of talent, some sort of ability.
I think perhaps I expect all of this to come easily to me because I've been told that I'm 'good with words'. That I'm a word person, that I'm creative.
When I started karate, I took it for granted that I'd be shit. I still feel like a beginner, and I've been training for just under a year now. I suppose that seems a long time, but it's not really considering that I have the rest of my life to learn these techniques.
The problem with my approach to writing is that I want it to happen NOW. Without experimentation, without trying at all; I expect that story to appear RIGHT THIS MINUTE a la how J.K Rowling once said in an interview that Harry Potter just 'walked' into her head.
It's time I stopped seeing it as being so black and white - that I can or can't write. I may still see myself as a beginner in martial arts, but I can also see myself getting better, so why not make it the same for my writing? It's just another technique that I have the rest of my life to learn, after all.
After all, you can't bore people forever.
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| Papier Mache |
[July 11, 2006 @ 11:09pm] |
When I made papier mache we used to use a balloon, blow it up and cover it in newspaper and sticky PVA glue which went all over our hands and went everywhere, sometimes even ended up in our hair… and then we’d pop the balloon inside. The shape was hollow.
Hollow. A vessel for nothing; emptiness, and yet not quite. You’re muffled, you’re strangled and you don’t understand why you can’t express this whole array of emotions that should be stirring inside of you. Sometimes you can’t help but wonder if your insides will just shrivel up like a popped balloon; truly making you naught but a walking vessel.
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| Eventually |
[July 10, 2006 @ 11:51pm] |
Eventually would come, soon, she supposed.
When that would be, she didn't know, but it would be worth it, eventually. That would be nice. Eventuality was something to look forward to.
She was getting old now, and there was nothing else to look forward to. While she wasn't sure what would come eventually, she was sure that it would be better than the present; where walls enclosed her in one room with few visitors. Though it could be worse. The curtains were rather nice, after all.
Something that had long died within her would have yearned for eventually, in the days when you just stretched as far as you could to reach the future before anyone else. Attempts to clasp it in your hand were futile until one day, you succeeded. Then followed disappointment.
Perhaps, she thought, just waiting for eventually to come would make its arrival somehow better. She was calm, she was patient and she could wait. This way, no one was making eventually more than it seemed. No one told you how magical it was, no one told you how fantastic you'd feel and no one would make mountains out of molehills, as people so commonly do.
The long afternoons stretched on as she mused, awaiting eventually but not expecting it anytime soon. It'd be a nice surprise that way.
Bah. I don't like it.
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| Unfinished |
[May 30, 2006 @ 10:09am] |
Response to a word : Oops! (Yeah, I'm not sure why this came from that either)
I’m not particularly enjoying your presence here right now. Frankly, I’d much rather if you fucked off somewhere else. I don’t care for you or your bullshit morals, the ones you happen to be spouting to your company. It seems that you’re to become a youth leader, hence the celebratory meal. Murphy’s Law dictates that you should choose the one place I work.
However, I can see that you’re looking nervous. Your leg twitches, your hands are clenched, and your laughs are high-pitched : unnatural. Are you scared? Good. You used to fucking terrify me every time I saw you.
Does it bother you that I’m here? I hope so, because your presence aggravates the fuck out of me. Naturally, I’ll smile and be nothing less than my employee handbook dictates me to be, guaranteeing me a big fat tip from your blissfully ignorant pastor.
Took about... 10 minutes? Possibly less.
As you can see, I'm still warming up. This is unfinished, and is likely to remain so.
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| Paranoia |
[May 28, 2006 @ 10:35pm] |
When your answers are just one or two words, I worry. Silence. Read between the lines. What are you thinking? Why are you turning away? What’s wrong? I can’t help asking questions when you’re saying nothing. Self-conscious, selfish. It’s all about me, because I just want you to talk, re-affirm my self worth. Your approval is pivotal. I need you. Help me to understand what’s going on inside your mind. Do you hate me? Call me paranoid. You hate me don’t you? Why? What have I done wrong? It must be me, it always is. Are you talking about me behind my back? Tell me what’s wrong!
One word prompt, 5 minutes
Hm. A little disappointed that I didn't hold out for as long as I'd wanted. I'm aiming to be able to write for about ten, fifteen minutes.
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[May 26, 2006 @ 11:23am] |
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TEST
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