Is it enough to be a watcher?
A beautiful visual must be accompanied by a physical sensation, otherwise it would be enough to look at an image of a mountain without feeling the height of it and smelling the air from the top.
Often we see pictures of the earth and the mind generates a thought, ‘I want to go there’.
I look up in my wandering and see a man on his bike.
He notices me and emits a cheerful “Good Morning”. I say the same back and feel a social unspoken rule has been broken. Nobody ever speaks to another in the desert. We are all protected by a sense of personal space.
All it takes is somebody who doesn’t conform and we are all in danger.
I wonder if I could become a non-conformist?
It’s black against the pale blue backdrop.
Its black and twisted and sharp in its nakedness. Its not unique to this place. There are countless black intersecting marks foregrounding the scene.
I would be a complete zombie…
So perhaps we could talk about zombie movies, which would remind me of a recent road trip I took out into the middle of nowhere.
The roads were lined with road-kill.
Being too tired for filters, I’d probably bring up the topic to which, if you are anything like me, would put us both off our beverages.
Hopefully the view would make better entertainment than the awkward silence that might ensue.
I was alone.
Things had been tense at the house for a while… and so I was alone to avoid the “tense-ness”, so to speak. I was not alone because I wanted to be.
The rain was pouring down outdoors, making contact in comforting sounds to the exterior of the building.
I sat staring at my computer screen in hopes of something. I didn’t know what. Eventually, through a few aimless clicks, I landed up reading a very short story, about a man who fell in love with the idea of a stranger.
I remembered falling in love with the idea of a stranger once.
He used to come to the beach and write in his car every morning – just like me. One day he didn’t come to the beach… and I never saw him again.
I noticed some tears slide their way down my cheeks.
I could hear the loud invasive cacophony of the television set in the living-room where my partner watched other imaginary lives being lived.
Free Writing – Do it!
If you were to sit next to me right now, with an equally grande sized latte, I would be eternally grateful.
Not because I need a partner in crime so that I don’t feel so incredibly greedy drinking this giant cup of a morning, but because of a recent incident on the bus.
I would ask you, after gently prying to ensure you are not such type a person, why it is that some mothers, in public, indulge in swearing profusely at their children.
They seem to do it in order to make said child less noisy, all the while drawing the commuters attentions (which the children had failed to attract) to their own high pitched and filthily embellished orders.
It also worries me that they can turn it on and off so quickly… As if it is all really an act and in no way a natural human’s occasional lack of emotional control.
The kind of thing I was all too familiar with in customer service call centers where the person on the other end of the line was audibly hyperventilating in anger and frustration (or so I used to believe).
At first I felt really bad for the children…
And then i realized that the children themselves were entirely not phased by it. Is it just me? Am I too sensitive?
I lay very still as my ears explore the world of 90’s grunge and wonder what kind of person I might be if I let the sound define me. The room around me remains unaltered, half packed since last week. The yellow paint on the walls is chipped here and there. Moving furniture in and out and all around has been done clumsily and left the marks, the walls look dirty even though they are bare.
I was taking the scenic train ride from my town of residence into the big city and while admiring the beautiful view of woodlands and waterways, a traumatic experience I had the previous weekend rose to memory, which seemed so surreal in contrast.
My first real assignment of the year was due by midnight Sunday. I hadn’t started yet and it was Friday evening, my meeting that afternoon had gone way over schedule. Needless to say, tensions were high.
It just so happened, as things always seem to do – with that perfectly inconvenient timing – that my partner and I had a rather immense falling out. I was sure that this would mean my whole world would soon be changed forever and we would break-up for good. It would mean facing the second major heartbreak of my life, and catching a one way ticket to the little country I grew up in.
The situation left me so emotionally distraught that I was certain my dreams of graduating university (or at the very least passing this paper) would all die with my inability to complete my assignment in the face of real-life misery.
Queue the mask of (in)sanity. Spoiler alert… I manged to finish the assignment. But I didn’t finish it as the woman with relationship troubles and butterflies in her stomach. I played a game, wore a mask, acted like I was somebody else. This time I was an eccentric scholar of English Literature. Over qualified for the assignment in front of me, I read out loud putting on a poor excuse for an English accent, explaining the questions and deducing answers while explaining the process to imaginary confused and needy students (ironically – my true identity).
After the assignment was complete, I slipped back to reality, and yes I may have searched out the house for alcohol or chocolate and curled up on the floor in tears trying to wrap my head around my possibly destroyed romantic future, but the assignment was done – thanks to the mask.
Have you ever used a mask or alternative persona to get what needed doing done?
Kneeling at the coffee table which has been my only desk these past weeks, an eerie tune plays through my headphones. It is creating an atmosphere that I know is fragile enough to be destroyed should I choose to remove them. My mind is wandering back to places that I can no longer be.
Daily Prompt (dailypost.wordpress.com):
Write Here, Write Now