black symbols dashing across the page- they have no meaning but the ones we give them, but their splashes are oh-so glorious. the power they hold is inconceivable, but they are so fleeting- there one day, gone the next. it is said, however, that they may last forever: you can never take them back, but oh, how we return them- faster speeds, more damage, the world's most deadly weapon. take them. use them wisely. craft them, sharpen their edges if you must. but oh gods please use them wisely.
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I used to think you a black hole. Completely dark, and a parasite, not a positive trait about you. And lifeless, absolutely soulless. God, I was so very very wrong. You’re not just a black hole, you’re the night sky, a galaxy, the whole fucking universe . My whole universe. You’re not all darkness, like you want everyone to think. You’re riddled with stars, bright spots, like your humor, your pretty smile, your laugh. There are entire solar systems in the way you think, everything revolving and clicking so perfectly, so complex and mysterious but to you so natural, so easy. You’re so brilliant. And sure, there are dark points, negative space in the in-between. But honey, please believe me when I say this, that everything about you is beautiful. And frankly, I think God made a mistake when he hung the stars in the sky. He should’ve put all their glittering glory in your eyes. But that’s okay. You picked yourself up and put them there yourself.
For my Perspectives self-portrait, I decided to paint a black and white image of me with blue accents. I chose this block of wood as my canvas because it had two shallow cavities right where I wanted to draw the eyes, which I enjoyed because it gives the painting the illusion of the eyes following you where you go. I chose to do this in black and white because it portrays the way I see the world: somewhat colorless and bland, and I like the way it makes it so that the world sees me as I see the world. The blue accents contradict this, but blue is also associated with the cold, so it gives the whole piece an air of cold blandness, which I enjoy. I also gave myself bags under my eyes to represent how tired I generally feel. I added the collar and chain because, on occasion, I feel chained by other people's expectations of me, and the blue-to-black gradient background accents this. Since the chain goes toward the black, it's chaining me to the bad things, to the dark,
So, it's Halloween. And while that is an amazing day full of spooks and treats- for me, it's also a little nerve-wracking. And that's because I've decided: this year? I'm going to tackle NaNoWriMo. For those of you that don't know, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, and the challenge is to write a 50k novel in a single month. Crazy, right? I think so too. I'm not saying I'm not going to succeed, not by a long shot, but I'm definitely going to try. If nothing else, I'll gain a bunch of writing practice and have a blast along the way, even if I do fail; and I'd count that as a win. I'm super excited for it, and I'll be working on my original story Cold As Flame, one of my favorite WIPs. Hopefully, I'll gain some new advice from the experience to share with you all! Peace!
Of broken mirrors and pixie dust the water shatters with light, bouncing diluted warmth from its mirror-like countenance. maybe that's why the world is so grey, she thinks as she sits upon the edge. if the ocean shines like a broken mirror always then that must be an entire eternity of bad luck, by now. she's not superstitious, but that's what she thinks. and if superstition was what the rest of the world believed, then who's to say it wasn't a self-fulfilling prophecy? belief holds power, strength. she knows that. that's why she didn't believe in anything, not even herself. she is weak. and as contradictory as that is, she believes that with certainty. .....she jumps. the birds around her fly to their own freedom, dancing on the wind the way the sun danced on the waters below.
the iciness of the air comes in through my nose, my mouth, and somehow, sets my insides aflame. no no no, i scream. it is silent, but in my mind, overwhelmingly unbearably loud; it's all i can hear, all i can think- gods no not again- because the cold- while i love it it sometimes does not love me. sometimes it fuels a fire within me that wants me to run, run as far as you can, go, get a w a y - but there is no escape, and there shouldn't be. i must learn to live with the flames. so i let them burn me away to ash, knowing that soon, i would be whole again.
You know, writing is... it's an experience. I mean, I'm sitting here tapping out words on a school district computer, vaguely wondering what my classmates might be doing, considering, maybe, the audience this post will reach. Not much of one, I assume. But imagine if it did . Because, wow, then this (the product of boredom in a class I maybe should be focusing in) starts to matter. Because without an audience, what is a writer? A dreamer, mostly. A person screaming out words to a void that doesn't care, that won't give feedback or ponder at the carefully crafted sentences. But with an audience? Ideas become shared things, works of art and color that flow not just through one mind but through many. The words start to matter, because if they aren't heard? They truly and honestly don't. I'm sure we all know the old riddle "If a tree falls in the forest, and no one's around, does it make a sound?" This applies to us and our thoug