Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

In an ocean of voices, how does one communicate his own? The sound is lost before it ever leaves his lips, consumed by a torrential outpouring of a million different words all trying to say a million different things.

In an environment such as this, where everyone gets to have their say, how can one make himself be heard?

Sometimes, the effort just to continue speaking seems too great to bear; like a heavy boulder strapped to my back, I cannot endure it.

I just want to lie back in my bed and not get up in the morning, to just lay there in the darkness, blinds drawn, waiting to die.

Sometimes, in the darkness of despair, I think that maybe death won’t be so bad, that at least in non-existence1 I can find the peace I lacked in life.

Death, if there is no life beyond, is a dark stillness, an eternal sleep, a state in which one’s problems never trouble them again.


The fear I have isn’t always that I won’t fulfill whatever my purpose in life was, but that I’ll discover on the brink of death that there was no purpose3, that all of this was just some unhappy accident.

From non-existence to existence, then back to non-existence. Conservation of energy and momentum. Cold hard balance, foisted upon us all in the dark and uncaring void of space and time.


Footnotes

1. I don’t really believe that we cease to exist when we die. But sometimes, when I’m feeling really depressed, I begin to wonder.

2. I believe that all of us are born into this world with a mission, that we all have a purpose. But I often question that belief.


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Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

The mind is a rough unrefined oar1, full of gold, but in a useless form.

Freewriting is like dynamite. It blows the rigid unusable rock of the mind, blows it into tiny chunks and find sand that can be melted down, refined, worked into polished gold and silver and crystal.

Sometimes, to solve a difficult problem, to break through a writer’s block, to give expression to an inexpressible thought, all you need is a good old fashioned2 explosion and the patience to pick up the pieces.


Magic. Each of us has the power to change the course of the world. We can drive people to success or ruin; we can build or destroy relationships; we can literally change the face of the Earth; we can do all of these things with mere words.

There is power in words3. In words we find the expression of ideas, thoughts, laws, love, hate.

Through words, the will engages the world; through words, the will exerts its influence on the world, shapes and molds it with fine grained4 tools.


Footnotes

1. Should be ore.

2. Should be old-fashioned.

3. I believe this particular freewrite gave birth to the blog, A Real Magic Power That You Possess.

4. Should be fine-grained.


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

How am I like a flame?

Sputtering, I consume what lies before me, knowing not how long I have left before my fuel is exhausted, before my ephemeral existence is extinguished forever, swallowed by the dark.

I burn passionate and bright. I gaze toward Heaven, stretch high into the sky, longing to cut my ties to this wick, this earthly tether that holds me fast to the ground in a jar.1 I burn bright, my eyes lifted toward the heavens, toward flames in the sky a thousand times as bright, durable, passionate, incorruptible (though even the stars one day exhaust the last of their fuel and cease to burn.)

 


Footnotes

1. I was trying to liken the Earth to a candle in a jar, but I don’t think I made the connection very clear.


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

Letter to a Bully

Once, you killed me in the worst possible way.

But like a Phoenix, I’ve been reborn from the ashes. The wings you clipped when
we were young have regenerated. They’ve unfurled like a newborn flower, and I’ve
taken to the sky once more.

You can’t hurt me now. I’m out of reach.


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

My writing muscles, rusty and ridden with arthritis in their old age1, squeak and squeel2 and catch as I try to capture that once fluid rhythm that I had once known when I’d regularly fed and nourished my writing, before the neglect, before the indifference, the laziness, the unwillingness to go on in the face of difficulty. I open the faucet, expecting an outpouring, and I find that the pipes have run dry.

Frantic, I run to the well, hoping to find underground reserves buried somewhere deep inside my psyche, and I find that it too is dry.

I collapse, a rag doll, to the ground, bury my face in my hands, and I weep.

I weep bitter acrid tears, tears of acid that burn the land as they fall to the ground.

I weep for the loss of all I loved and held dear, that priceless gem, the diadem I once wore atop my head with pride.

It’s all gone now, just a ghost, a hollow emptied soul howling in pain and anguish, wandering dusty ill-lit chambers late at night, accusing me of a terrible crime. I hear its lamentations, its accusations, and I can’t help but reach the same conclusions.

I am worse than a criminal. In doing nothing, I’ve murdered myself, along with everything I loved.

I deserve to die.


Footnotes

1. I wrote this after having neglected my writing for a few months. It took me a long time to feel confident again.

2. Should be squeal.


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

He imagined what the meeting would be like1, and he cried. He hadn’t met her yet, and already he cried. Enough premature emotional ejaculation and he was fairly certain there would be no tears left to shed for the event itself.


He tirelessly rallied against the imperfections of others2 because he secretly harbored a grudge against the imperfections in himself.


He gazed out the tiny double-paned plastic porthole3, taking in the landscape below, ripples and folds in a great geological fabric.


Footnotes

1. I wrote this on an airplane last November, on my way to meet a woman I’d dated for seven months before finally going to meet her. I’m happy to report that the meeting went well, and we’re still together today <3

2. I’ve never done this myself, you understand. No, not once…

3. This I wrote the second time I was on an airplane three months later :) Same destination.


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

Who Am I? It’s A Mystery.

My nephew Mason had his fourth birthday party last December, and the house was saturated with plastic helium balloons. When the festivities were over, I tried to think of things I could do with them (other than make myself sound like a chipmunk) so they wouldn’t completely go to waste.

Suddenly inspired, I grabbed a sheet of paper, scribbled a note and attached it to one of the balloons before releasing it into the sky. It was my hope that I could instill a sense of mystery and wonder into a random stranger’s life.

This is what the note said:

You might be wondering who I am. But who I am is a mystery. All the evidence you have of my existence is this solitary note.

That’s part of what makes life so interesting. From the big mysteries, like what we are and why we’re here, to the small mysteries, like who that crazy guy is who’s sending notes out on balloons.

Enjoy life. Enjoy the mystery. <3

In the very unlikely event you happen to be the person who found my note, please let me know in the comments below!


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.