Weekly encouragements to help you express yourself.
By Rohan
...the dew trickles down the teflon leaves with the rain gently falling on the roof. the thuds and bangs eased out as the sun set over the horizon exposing the foreshadowed moonlight that glistened over the hard and cold asphalt floor. a gentle howl proceeded in the background reverberating through the piercing silence as the husk of the gentle east-end wind blew making its way past the high mountains, only to penetrate the sleek branches of the pine and eucalyptus. this was a world where nature was at its best, with all universal forces existing in tandem and harmony where man co-existed and preserving what remained. this was a perfect world where inequalities didn't exist. a world where every one was given a chance and a world that taught morality instead of victory. a world that cared; not only of its people but also of nature.
this is definitely a utopic one where there seems to be this non-existence of externalities. the lack of different perspectives, and the reigning of innocence. a world that is not perfect in its truest form and essence.
we all look forward to this scenario where every single person of the 7 billion of us are on the same boat in a vast endless ocean. to live in harmony, peace and joy and to enjoy life and thrive upon happiness for eternity, never to experience pain, suffering and betrayal. and in my opinion, that is a world unknown to the reality and blinded by innocence and immaturity.
the earth that we live in, was never meant to be like that and will never sought to develop into that “perfection”. the millions of ideas, perspectives and clashes is what makes us perfect. a world that thrives amongst all this suffering and a one that rebels and fights for the good, is all that embodies us as we preserve the features that really ought to be changemakers.
there is no need to imagine and create utopic dimensions when we all live in one pale blue dot that is imperfectly perfect...
A response to the Now prompt
By Penelope Toot
I have never been good at sharing my thoughts on paper. Always scared that I would be misunderstood. I was afraid of being vulnerable to the world. It was easier to go hide in the shadows and go unnoticed.
I wasn't always that way. I can remember the feeling of a finished book and the excitement felt when sharing it with my grandparents as a child. They would tell me to go write them a story and I'd come back with a story book of random collections of all sort of eccentric storylines, like alligators taking a bubble bath or owls putting children to bed. To this day, I can still remember the euphoria of closing a finished book. A book that I created and get to share with my family.
Going into middle school and even throughout high school I forgot how much I enjoyed writing. Writing from the heart is not a forced act. If you feel forced writing your thoughts on paper, pick up a book. Become aspired and let go. I still have a problem with overthinking everything I write down and re-checking it over and over again and end up just deleting the whole thing. Authors like Joseph Campbell, J. Krishnamurti, and Florence Shinn are just a few of those who have influenced me. We just have to write until it makes sense. Be you, don't let others become the master of you. Who cares what someone thinks. I admit that I am grammatically incompetent, but who is anyone to judge. I have a lot of fun in collecting these words. It is both embarrassing and quite hilarious.
A response to the Writing prompt
By Acererak
Writing makes me feel like im the boat, the river and sailor. Like I am the sun overhead and the rocks just out of view. The events of the moment. The moment itself. Writing shares my inner self. Even when I don't mean too.
Emotions are hard for me. Not so much I wouldn't cry during “Marley and Me” or “Grave of the Fireflies”. But I keep my caring close. I keep pain even closer. I take all the tragedy in my life and push it down, too far down. The only thing that has made a trip down that well. Has been writing.
I've never and could never plan what I'm going to write. It's a font. I let the words spill (usually misspelled) onto whatever medium it demands. This has led to many unfinished stories, poems and sidewalk art. It has led to some of the best ideas of my life.
When I was sixteen, I wrote a story. I titled it a 'love story' and wrote it the night before valentines day. It was about a boy. Who grew up in a poor house without walls. About him finding his first friend, a girl with raven hair. How they grew up together. How.. they grew apart.
I wrote about him discovering what it meant to grow up. How he found new love in another. In her he saw her passions, drive and peace. To really see someone else and fall in deeply love.
I wrote that story for her and the next day. Trembling on the bus. I held that story close to my chest. When I got to school, I laid that story on her desk.
We have been married for over fifteen years.
So writing makes me feel pretty happy. Even if what I write isn't always well written. It is cathartic and I owe a lot of tranquility to it.
Thanks
A response to the Writing prompt
By Nolimetagerine
Writing has come quite natural to me since I was a tot, though I started drawing way before I was able to write.
Since I grew up kind of secluded for familiar reasons, writing was my personal way to explore and experience. I relate writing to walking because, to me, both are about exploring familiar spaces, anew.
I haven't been writing much, of late, except for some fanfictions which I regard rather as harmless pastime. I put a certain amount of effort in that, especially since I love writing in English, but I don't really consider it “serious writing”. More of a stretching exercise, of sorts, in which I engage just when I feel like.
When I am inspired, I tend to write in a flow, but nothing too stormy. It's a thick, intense, yet tranquil stream.
I guess I feel happy and alive when I write: it is like losing myself in another dimension for a while. Call it the merriment of an escapist, if you please.
A response to the Writing prompt
By borscht
Something I've been up that is also on my mind lately is songwriting. I'm trying to get into it. I wrote a song, but then school got in the way of me having time to figure out the instrumentals and production and everything, but I guess I am also currently very focused on editing a video also. With my busy schedule (4 APs + Speech Team + Senior year of high school = too much work) I'm learning I don't have room for more than one thing to chip away at outside of school.
I also, literally just made a blog on here today. So, this is also something I'm up to. I should probably be working on my essay instead of this, but I fell down a bit of a rabbit hole.
Anyway, I'm feeling tired and hazy today, but tomorrow is Friday...a new day.
And I'm ready to kill it.
A response to the Now prompt
By brassmonkey
Writing for me makes me confront my fears , it makes me realize how big or small they are . It sometimes even throws me into a fit of anxiety , anger and sadness. But since the first step to solving your problems or even confronting them is to acknowledge them , it acts as a medium to help me out of denial.
Sometimes I can write without holding back , the right words , the satire , the rhyme scheme , its like a forest fire , once it starts it doesn't stop until it burns the entire forest down. But the deeper the problem hits home, the harder it is for me to find the words to describe it. I would say for me writing is generally a forced task . Because I am oftentimes more troubled when I pen down my problems be it about society , the world or myself. Its like breaking up with someone you love. Its hard to bring yourself to do it. But not writing about it is like staying in a toxic relationship . It unknowingly takes away too much from you.
A response to the Writing prompt
By Tim Schooler
Rich people owned the first portable watches. Before that time, in the sixteenth century, people usually relied on the sun or roosters to know the time. The average person didn't count minutes. There were times to churn butter or to groom a horse. Iimagine that time of that era wasn't artificial.
The Internet listings of wristwatchs help me to relax. Gadgets and wristwatches have tracks of minutes. They correspond to lines of now. I also produce free writing. I could measure the passage of my writing time by the characters or words of typing. I brush up or work on lines of characters and hope to get published.
TMO, whose blog I admired, wrote of Yve-Alain Bois. He was reported to have said in an interview, [I wrote about a work] because I wanted to understand why I like it. I am interested in something. I want to understand why. That is why I write about it.”
I found a Zenith Elite watch online after ten minutes on the Internet. Ten minutes per day with watch listings seems like a reasonable amount of relaxing time with the Internet.
To produce American sentences, I take ten minutes. Then it is usually weird writing. Ten Minute Poetry can be a humorous title for a blog. It would be with my poem of plaintive questions, “How do I use 'I' less. How do I put more insights into my paragraph?”
Writing is for me. Feedback for my ideas motivates me. American sentences are seed sentences to me. I make an image with writing of seventeen syllables. For my path to poetry, I will graduate to haiku or stanzas.
A response to the Now prompt
By Edeh Chinedu David
Heavy our heart to bear Crippled are our entity Appeared we as nonentity Poisoned our hearts with marah Woes cry we like owls Divided ocean our minds you made Bruised and wounded our hearts you turn Left to die in the wilderness of misery Too heavy again our hearts to bear the pain Slaves become we in our land Nemesis travel you where That you can't fight for this forlorn entity? Beggers be we in our own inheritance Pleading for a sip though in the middle of ocean Nemesis where have thy laid you sting? Or are we made to vanish from the surface of the earth? Or mistakenly come we to this entity? Dried our lymph that it can't rain Peace has gone from our land As the unknown beasts evaded our land Painted red is our land Even the unborn child is scared to come Our shoulders you over burdened with sorrow Then lye we like clueless entity Quenched are our pleasant lyrics As our homes are covered with tale of woes Impregnated are our minds with blinking and fearful thoughts.
A response to the Now prompt