All You Need is Love, Love, Love is All You Need

Creative Writing Journal- "The knot"

The knot-a doubled-over length of rope, tied tight and strung around a stout tree trunk. A purple knot, to match my vibrantly blue hammock. I tied the knots myself, hung the hammock, too. It would be my fault only if I swang once, then plummetted to the dense forest floor.

The knots hold. They creak as I rock, the bark compresses, threatens to slip the rope. I stare through my cocoon, watching squids wrestle with gnomes in the sky. I'm alone and quiet. No one nags about chores or yells their agenda at me. Homework and college applications never existed. No squeaky fan or whining T.V. distracts. The inaudible whoosh of my hammock fills my ears, blocking my thoughts. I make myself sick, looking backwards, as the upside-down tree swings as a pendulum, keeping time with my effortless breathing.

I lie, embraced in yards of rope and parachute, until the breeze becomes a violent gust. It swings me higher and higher until the strong knots I tied fray and snap. With one last blast of wind, I'm thrown into the air-past the solid trunks, past the unreachable canopy, past the blue sky, past the clouds.

I'm flying and falling through arcs and spins. I'm off and I'm not returning.

Goodbye, Gravity.

(What I see when I look backwards and up through my hammock.)
(And then just up.)

His phobia . . . (fear)

My teacher wrote this phrase on the board today in Creative Writing as a prompt. The following is what I wrote, very rough and totally unedited, but the idea is there.

My phobia . . .
of the elusive elipses. My irrational fear of a blank page, of the painful transportation of images from mind to pen and paper. A time-consuming block of vocabulary, preventing my overcrowded ideas from permanent preservation. An abhorred feeling creeps through, one of spending incredible amounts of time creating ensembles of words with minimal progress--confused that the pictures floating across my eyes are vomited onto the page, scattered and scantily clad.
Pretentious. A phobia of pretentiousness. That some self-sufficient, poetic peer would snort at the words that I struggled to write.
On the other hand . . .
I adore an elipses heading a page brimming with my hurried, inconsistent handwriting. Few things satisfy like a story finished or a poem accurately conveying my feelings.
For all the toil of writing, the euphoria is sweet enough to erase the past.

Unused favorites

...the whole wide world is mine...

If I had a chance for another try,

I wouldn't change a thing
It's made me all of who I am inside

And if I could thank god

That I am here, and that I am alive

And everyday I wake

I tell myself a little harmless lie

The whole wide world is mine.

--Angels and Airwaves, "Rite of Spring"

Consider the Lilies

Dear Briahna, This weekend I went to the lake...

Summer is Ending

I've been avoiding the End of Summer because it means quite a few people I dearly love will move away. I know I'll see them again, but saying goodbye, the hardest part, is fast approaching and, in some cases, has already happened.