Hey,
We were asked to write a love letter, so of course I'm writing it to you.
It's hard to write a love letter. Even to you, who occupies most of my thoughts.
I wish I could see you. I wish I could touch you. Instead, I have to imagine.
Imagine you standing beside me. Imagine holding your hand. Imagine the conversations, the jokes, the feelings.
Without you all I feel is an ache. It hurts, like my body is caving in. Like my heart has been replaced by a black hole.
But the thing that hurts the most is the fact this can never happen.
I know you'll never say my name. You'll never smile at me or greet me with a hug. You'll never hold me, listen to me or reassure me.
You'll never miss me.
How depressing.
Skye
Monday, 20 April 2015
Haikus
That ache in my chest
When I watch aeroplanes fly
Reminds me of you.
***
Dancing like snowflakes
We fall in grace and beauty
Wonderful descent.
***
The stars watch me search
Jealously wishing upon
My own hopes and dreams.
***
You make me feel like
An avalanche that has stopped
Halfway down a hill.
***
Tomorrows feelings
Are just like believing in
Something permanent.
***
People always say
A time will come when you know
What will happen next.
***
His life burnt my eyes
And sometimes I wonder if
I could see my own.
***
I find myself in
Those times when you look at me
Like I'm far away.
***
I'm writing so many
Haikus I've forgotten how to
Count to five and seven.
An inspirational song
Tigger
When I told my mum I had put Spud and Minka on my blog for inspiration, she insisted that I put her dog, Tigger, on too.
Tigger is blind. He has no eyes. This does not stop him. He has titles in obedience and tracking. He is even a service dog. The above photo is of him in his special coat.
This is him waiting to track.
Monday, 13 April 2015
My dogs
because cute doggies count as sources of inspiration, right?
I mean, look at her curled on the beanbag
And little Spud in my bed
Seriously, how is that relaxing?
Now I can't go to bed
The Mysteries of Harris Burdick
This is a book by Chris van Allsburg.
It has fourteen illustrations and each is accompanied by a sentence.
The story behind this book is very interesting.
A man (Harris Burdick) turned up one day with these pictures and sentences. He said he had a story for each. They told him to bring to stories the next day. He doesn't turn up. They search for him. There are no records of any Harris Burdick.
These are very good prompts for stories, I find.
It has fourteen illustrations and each is accompanied by a sentence.
The story behind this book is very interesting.
A man (Harris Burdick) turned up one day with these pictures and sentences. He said he had a story for each. They told him to bring to stories the next day. He doesn't turn up. They search for him. There are no records of any Harris Burdick.
These are very good prompts for stories, I find.
_cover.jpg)
The Lumber Room
As soon as the door shuts, I begin to panic.
It's too dark. My eyes blink rapidly, desperate to rid themselves of the coloured lights that dance through the gloom, remnants of light from outside.
My breathing slows as I regain my sight. Not that there's much to see.
The air is musty and thick, full of dust and forgotten things. Underneath, like dust swept under a carpet, is a faint acrid smell like smoke from a fire. Not the smoke from a bonfire that lingers for days and whispers memories from your jumper, nor like the delicate intoxicating scent of a blown out candle. This smells like fear.
Looking back at the door, I am blinded by the light that worms its way through the cracks. It lights up swirling dust like glitter in a snow globe. I move my foot and a larger cloud rises. I reach out as it settles, catching the powder in my hands. Ash.
I turn back around and begin to walk. My arms are outstretched, ready to guard against anything that's lurking unseen. My feet search the ground before each step and I cough as more ash rises.
I touch something.
A strangled yell escapes my mouth and I leap backwards. My heart is trying to force its way up my throat, through my chest, any escape from this room. I clutch my hands to my chest to trap it. My legs are trembling so badly it's all I can do to keep standing. It doesn't help that I'm coughing. The ash, angry at being disturbed, seems determined to suffocate me.
Once I regain control of my limbs, I edge forward. My heart's pounding again, begging me to turn around, to flee, to live. I scoff at my own foolishness. I'm not going to die.
Spurred on by this thought, I stretch out my arms and touch the object again.It's hard, but flaky. Like the bark of the gum trees that grow by the river. Curious, I push on it. It creaks, slow and melancholic. It sounds lonely.
Without even considering how something made of wood can feel anything, I begin to pull it towards the door. It's not easy. Some flakes fall off and the floor screeches in protest. With each step the object groans, longer and longer, louder and louder as we get closer to the door.
With one great, final grunt I heave it through the door.
Panting, blind, I breathe in fresh air.
When I can see I turn around.
A wardrobe?
It's too dark. My eyes blink rapidly, desperate to rid themselves of the coloured lights that dance through the gloom, remnants of light from outside.
My breathing slows as I regain my sight. Not that there's much to see.
The air is musty and thick, full of dust and forgotten things. Underneath, like dust swept under a carpet, is a faint acrid smell like smoke from a fire. Not the smoke from a bonfire that lingers for days and whispers memories from your jumper, nor like the delicate intoxicating scent of a blown out candle. This smells like fear.
Looking back at the door, I am blinded by the light that worms its way through the cracks. It lights up swirling dust like glitter in a snow globe. I move my foot and a larger cloud rises. I reach out as it settles, catching the powder in my hands. Ash.
I turn back around and begin to walk. My arms are outstretched, ready to guard against anything that's lurking unseen. My feet search the ground before each step and I cough as more ash rises.
I touch something.
A strangled yell escapes my mouth and I leap backwards. My heart is trying to force its way up my throat, through my chest, any escape from this room. I clutch my hands to my chest to trap it. My legs are trembling so badly it's all I can do to keep standing. It doesn't help that I'm coughing. The ash, angry at being disturbed, seems determined to suffocate me.
Once I regain control of my limbs, I edge forward. My heart's pounding again, begging me to turn around, to flee, to live. I scoff at my own foolishness. I'm not going to die.
Spurred on by this thought, I stretch out my arms and touch the object again.It's hard, but flaky. Like the bark of the gum trees that grow by the river. Curious, I push on it. It creaks, slow and melancholic. It sounds lonely.
Without even considering how something made of wood can feel anything, I begin to pull it towards the door. It's not easy. Some flakes fall off and the floor screeches in protest. With each step the object groans, longer and longer, louder and louder as we get closer to the door.
With one great, final grunt I heave it through the door.
Panting, blind, I breathe in fresh air.
When I can see I turn around.
A wardrobe?
Horror
okay, I'm just gonna put this out there
I hate horror and todays lecture made me feel sick
BUT
Danse Macabre is one of my favourite classical songs (mostly because it was the theme song to Jonathan Creek)
SO
I'm going to give you a link to this song because it is AWESOME
and because I know how to play it
I hate horror and todays lecture made me feel sick
BUT
Danse Macabre is one of my favourite classical songs (mostly because it was the theme song to Jonathan Creek)
SO
I'm going to give you a link to this song because it is AWESOME
and because I know how to play it
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)