Lost art
Writing a letter.
Really.
Yes.
This is a lost art. What are you staring at? I’m telling the truth! Don’t you get excited when your name is on that letter in the mailbox instead of cobwebs and bills? So, what’s that old fable moral we always forget? Give to get . . .
Go write a letter to someone who could use a smile today!
When you enjoy the moment . . .
. . . stories flip and frolic through your eyes and into your head like crazy fireflies flittering about in your July lawn.
No joke. Enjoy this moment. Look out the window, and you know what “they” say . . . “When a writer looks out the window, he/she’s working.”
Life is something so precious that can’t really be put into words . . . it’s meant to be lived, enjoyed . . . breathed in like your last inhale . . .
It’s been thought that the best stories rarely get told . . . what’s your story?
Rhythm of Life
The sand trickles down like a soft breeze crumbling into your lungs. Your hands let every pellet loose through gravity . . . falling and crashing, rising and leaving . . . The tide reaches you.
The surf flows in and drags back out.
The wind breaks softly and doubles back to breathe again.
What is the rhythm of your life?
Something beautiful drains itself to fill itself again like . . . the ocean . . . a giant glass raining with ideas and memories to be spoken and used drop by drop.
Life is meant to be used and lost . . . dropped and dragged . . . only to return to the shore it began with . . . only to realize that it’s in going that it truly comes back to life . . .
That sand tarnished by lissome feet has been swept away, clean again, because of the raining flight and the cold-cool plight of the waves that come back again.
What is the rhythm of your life?
Do your waves wash upon the sea, trying to paw at the rocks and sands that stretch on for miles, without returning to your Ocean?
Do your waves bask in the sun, too intent on being comfortable in that large Ocean to venture out onto the beach that has no comfort or rhythm?
Listen to the ring of the ocean’s rush, shushing your hushing voice that answers its sound . . . calling to you to return your waves to the Sea . . . only to be brought back to the sand . . . only to be washed anew for another rhythmic beat . . . called life.
Fall leaves?
The dog’s black nails scattered noise across the ground like fall leaves racing across a floor full of springtime.
It was in fact summer, but the times moved and shifted like the rising tides of the blue sea.
(Now, what would you do with this start? Would you end it abruptly by switching to a lighter atmosphere, a carefree story? Would you expound upon the times and how they sway? Would you bring out a fresh catch of words to introduce the background of this beginning? What would you do? Experiment! Off you go!)
Tick tackin’ away . . .
:) There’s so many songs floating about in my head, wandering around for lack of strings and strums to play them into melody. Well, in other words . . . there’s too many things to write about?
Seriously . . . the ineffableness of God . . . for one, ginormous topic. Another one could be how ginormous is the way it is . . . spelled very strangely.
Finding Never Ever Land, for example. So still . . . so tranquil. Under pixie dust and pirate ships abroad on the colorful oceans that drown under wallowing moons that glow with the fire of flights to be.
So many romantic stories to be twined to the string of life . . .
Too many birds to sing, too many swallows to dance, too many butterflies to bloom . . . and still, the one you write will be the most brilliant of them all.
What will you seize today?
Fall to winter
The perfect day…what’s yours?
Mine…mine, would be a day when music was the wind, God spoke clearer than the sting of fresh air, and I was healed. The perfect day…would be one of joy, of life laid down to the fullest extent, of time renewed and not lost. It’s all a speculation, right? But, what would it be like in the new heaven and new earth where old things pass away? The perfect day…that never ends.
Saturday on the Eastern Front…
It’s a cloudy one…have to say that I’m excited about it being fall, but I really want it to be sunny. :)
All right, so here’s what we’ve been doing in Speech and Comp… :)
Character sketch…o man…here we go…maybe you can tell me something more about him:
“Stay down! They hunt by air waves . . . Be still,” his voice beckoned, reaching for my sentience, but something kept me bound to itself as my frame stood above the mountains of white that paraded before me.
“Tay!”
I pivoted to note this remark. Tugged to the ground by the hearty grasp of my friend, the ground bit my hand, wrenching its icy teeth through my singeing nerves.
“I have to recover our flank . . . Wait here—and, DON’T MOVE,” his breath stumbled out of his mouth in colorless, tenuous threads.
Absently, I retrieved his explanation as the interesting fore provoked the fixity of my eyes to wander through the trails of the creamy white of a sudden winter. The cold imbued every aspect of this strange place; it appeared still, but something lurked in its stead that brought the remnants of peace forth in the writhing fingers of fervent discontent.
A figure, cloaked in black, skulked through the waning land. Its form, tall and dark, sifted through the shifting flakes of the peppery white that met their end in its dusky cloak.
Shadows shrank away, and he stood—a formidable stature in a sea of white.
His eyes panned to me; they soaked in everything, taking their time with the things that passed across the grazing reflections of his sight. Azure, they appeared intensely, questioning this scene in its fullness, as they reached toward me like two shivering hands.
My brow must have furrowed, for he tilted his head and emulated my expression with such a fervent aura as to speak, his ribbon mouth circled in an “o”. Then, his lips formed a small smile, his ever-blue eyes creasing.
A glistening track caught my gaze for the moment, winding itself down from a source of a now expressionless pool of blue—a trail of tears.
“My name’s Arkus . . .” His lips quivered, the sweet strain of his voice collapsing.
Who is he? What does he want?
I’m alive!!! :)
haha…oh yes, I believe I’m breathing pretty well at the moment. :) I have three soccer games this week, and I’m writing and drawing pretty feverishly for school and my agent. :) We played very well two days ago against a very highly ranked team, and we tied them 0-0. :) I was pretty psyched about that cuz our team is really young, and we’ve only played three games together I believe…yep, that’s a God thing. :) I ran my legs off…haha…
So, as for writing, what’s up in your world?
Turning a blind eye
Irony…simply put; the eye is infinitesimally complex, irreducibly so…this little structure has God’s fingerprints all over it…an evolutionist can’t explain it…science can’t fully comprehend it…yet, through this little organ, we humans tend to close our pupils to God and His transparent evidence…Sight is a miracle in itself of God’s making, but why in the world can’t people see Him through that very instrument?
Ironic…no, it’s more sad than that.
Yello…
Wow…I got to say:
Look for God in everything…did you see that sunset? He was hanging his hand out of the clouds and spreading his fingers through the streaks of gold…so cool. Nothing better than after soccer practice drives with the music of the wind streaming past the scales of the window, riding home with God in the sky.
