I don’t want to write about me autobiography style. I want to post some of my creative writing. Just because it’s who I am and I want to share that aspect of me with whoever has decided this blog is worth their time and attention. Thank you.
I sit and stare zombie-like at the screen of the computer. The word document is a blank canvas calling my name. It feels as if the flashing line that tells me where to write has been waiting for me all day. At times it is angry and impatient with me for staying away for so long. Other times it understands the mission I went on in order to arrive back with so much to share. So many world’s within world’s to unravel and make anew. My eyes start tear up as my fingers play the keys with passion. My fingers dance across the keys. I know every word before I’ve written and yet it is all stream of conscious. The nagging doubt that chases me throughout the day has all but disappeared. The fear is still there. My ever present guard dog is so preoccupied with keeping all the dangers of the world away it does not notice the sun shining or the pleasant breeze coming in from the window. All the fear cares about is feeding on the insecure energy all around.
This was some writing prompt I did: Think of someone you see often about whom you know very little. Describe the interior of that person’s home.
In the basement apartment of a house there lives a man and his cat. Clothes scattered all all over the floor as if the laundry room has thrown up. It’s very dark and gloomy. The table has been untouched. The puke green sofa has pizza sauce stains and smells foul. The television buzzes with sports news. In the closest hangs a nicely pressed pants and jacket that make up an official uniform.
Waking Dreams Up 