As a ‘Writer’…

As a ‘writer’, I find inspiration in everyday life. My mind is constantly writing – looking for things I can borrow from. The earth, the universe, strangers, family, friends, loved ones… I find stories in most things, every day. I find myself narrating in my own mind, more times than I can count – most times without even realising. I mentally write stories about things that never even make it onto the page. Every day. Like an addiction. I write without even being conscious of it, it is within me. It is my nature. I observe and I see. I have a mind cramed full of words. But then I don’t. Social situations are not my nature. They are mostly difficult, with rare exceptions. Talking to talk, is not my nature. Talking about myself openly and without prompting is not my nature. But writing. Writing is like a cool breeze on the hottest day of the year. It is a relief. A hope. A wish. Writing is everything. The weights of the world lift off my shoulders as soon as my fingers run across the keyboard. The scratch of a pen against paper fills my soul with such lightness, it makes my breath stop.

The feeling of that last sentence. Of pulling everything together neatly, of feeling that closure… Of getting to have the last word. Just this once… or until the next time that my fingers meet the keyboard.

 

 

Day 28

And when the rain fell, they looked at each other and they laughed. Running through puddles, pushing and pulling at each other as they ran. Their laughter was loud and happiness radiated from their eyes. To live in the moment was a miraculous thing.

Day 14

And their eyes met. The supermarket was quiet, only one or two people walking around the isles. A whole world of regret passed through the eyes of one, while years of sadness passed through the other’s. As they walked by each other, shopping trolleys almost grazing, there was a whispered, “happy birthday”.

 

Day 13

And it was only in nature that she saw them. It was never from peering out the window or walking down the street. She knew that in order to see them, she had  to make that effort. The walk was quiet, up the hill and past all the townhouses with their chimney’s smoking and up through the snicket. The woodlands was alive with birdsong, the air filled with magic and secrets.

And it was here, always here, that she saw them.

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Day 10

And then she wailed. The birds, who had previously been singing their eve song, closed their beaks. Even they knew this was no longer the time. The air stilled and a respectful, unsure tension overcame the earth. A wail that was so powerful it stilled every nation could surely only come from an unbearable, unspeakable pain.

Day 8

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And as the carriage sidles up to the door, the wheel snags on the cobbles. The lone passenger corrects his hat, moving it back down over his eyes, slanted slightly to one side. Moving his hand, he reaches through the carriage window for the door handle. There is only one thought running through his mind as his foot finally hits familiar cobble: home.