I’m feelin’ this groove.
The bass is bumping like a heart
the melodies are flowing through my soul.
The vocals embrace me like a warm, puffy blanket on a cold winter evening.
The emotions wash over me like cold ocean waves.
I let them come.
I let them come.
My senses are dulled.
Oh baby, I’m in deep now.
Copper tubes sing their lovely song as the wind pushes against the hanging wooden slab.
Barren is the street that young children once ran upon, swinging cardboard swords and slaying invisible monsters.
Empty are the backyard shortcuts they used to run to each other’s homes for days of play.
Gone are those days.
Gone are the souls of heroics and their bravery, for they have been replaced with fear and cowardice.
We sharpen our tongues and brandish them with hesitation.
Now our monsters are reality.
What do I have to offer the world? That seems to be a question that almost everyone asks themselves.
I’m only twenty-two and I worry about this a good amount. What do I have to offer the rest of the world, to better it? What if writing isn’t my calling and it’s simply a hobby, nothing more?
What if being a ditch digger is my real calling? My skeletal body type would disagree but it could still be true.
I sometimes get weird bursts of confidence that make me think “Yeah, writing will be hard and tiring but I would be doing what I love, and isn’t that enough?”
My logical side kicks in to answer. “The world doesn’t want you to do what you love, it wants to turn a profit.”
Would writing be the same if I was being paid for it? I’ve always considered it an escape.
What good is a panic room if it constantly has a spotlight on it and is shaking?
In short, I don’t know what I want to be or even if I’ll be really good at anything. But that’s what life is about right? You go through it and attempt to figure yourself out, making a few decisions along the way.
Piece of cake.
I think that happiness is our default state and every other emotion is temporary.
The goodness in people can been seen in their eyes, their smiles, and can be felt from their hearts.
It can be felt though a hug or kiss, a high-five or a chest bump.
Bottle that feeling up and save it for later. Open it and let its soft glow guide you out of your darkness. Hold it like a baby bird and let it fill you up.
When it’s done it’s job you’ll need to refill the bottle.
The best part is, when you refill yours, you fill another’s as well.
Let positivity & love spread like wildfire.
Let’s all bring each other warmth.
As I feel the grass outlining my limbs,
the wind rustling the leaves in the tree above me, I wonder.
I wonder and I wonder, I wonder until my mind is mush oozing out of my ears.
Birds chirp and tweet as they flutter to their homes from a long day of work, as do we.
And as the warm light of dusk sinks low behind houses and hills I shall remain as I am,
When I read Writing Down the Bones or Bird By Bird, I can’t remember which, one of them talked about paying more attention to your surroundings. They also said that a writer is always analyzing their surroundings and thinking things up as they go about their day.
My default state is that of daydreaming, especially when I’m out somewhere; I sort of go into autopilot. I’m attempting to remedy that; I’m trying to snap myself out of my trance and focus on what’s happening around me, rather than just floating through. I think I’m making a bit of progress.
It’s strange to say but it sort of wears me out after a while, maybe this is because I’m not used to really focusing in on people and objects around me. I believe that I’m getting a bit better. I notice some things more and really try to think about the people I’m conversing with, like my grandparents for example. I try to stow away little thoughts and ideas I get from studying someone or something for a bit.
Practice makes perfect as they say and I feel as if this skill will only benefit me the more I work on it. Long story short, just try to pay attention to situations and people around you more, you never know what could pop into your head.
Do you ever feel like your words have no weight, that they’re just floating through your fingers and onto the page?
Do you ever feel like what you say has no power?
How about wondering whether or not you’re even doing what you love, or maybe that no one will take it seriously including yourself.
The crushing reality is that art is suffering.
Funny that, I don’t consider myself an artist.
why am I suffering?