Write.as Cues

Haiku by blondee

It's just you and me. But you seem so far away. I must run quickly.

A response to the Haiku prompt

Afraid by Bearded Pen

A response to the Afraid prompt

In all reality, if were not afraid, I don't know if I would want to be alive. The things that I fear for are the most important to me. My wife, my children, dear friends. If those fears or worries were gone would that mean I was all alone? I will be happy to hold onto my fear. What it comes with is way to important.

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

Respond to the prompt here.

Dream by Nikhil Nirmel

A response to the Dream prompt

People love telling others about their dreams, but no one wants to hear it. Dreams are fanciful and immaterial. They’re stories that didn’t happen. They don’t carry the introspective weight some think they do. So, why burden others with the absurdity of what you dreamt? Keep that shit to yourself.

With that said, I would like to tell you about a dream I had.

In this dream, I’m on an airplane, flying coach to San Francisco. The plane starts flying low to the ground, which starts to concern me. Others on the plane, also looking out the window, don’t seem bothered, so I’m given some relief. Eventually, though, the plane gets so low that it lands on the actual freeway and continues taxiing on Interstate 5. The other drivers on the freeway get out of the way, but continue on their way. I look to my fellow passengers for solidarity in in the horror of what is going on, but they are all still totally chill, as if this were routine. So I don’t speak up, assuming I must be missing something. But now, I notice we’re approaching the Golden Gate Bridge. Our plane’s wingspan is far wider than the bridge, and clearly, as soon as we reach the bridge, the wings are going to be snapped off, and the plane will burst into a ball of fire and that will be the end of it all for me. Again, I looked around, and people were seemingly bored, checking their emails now. And right as we’re about to crash into the entrance of the Golden Gate Bridge, the bridge, itself, expands outward such that the plane’s wings fit right through. Street lights, pillars, semi-trucks all bend out of the way at the exact moment the plane would have struck them. My terror subsides a bit, but is replaced with confusion. Will I be crushed to dust the moment the laws of physics resume their grip on reality? Why is no one else freaking the fuck out?

My alarm went off, and that scared me even more. And for a solid eight seconds, looking at an unfamiliar ceiling of a hotel room, I still had that feeling of fear. How could space bend like that? Why was everyone seemingly unfazed? Is this real life or have I passed away? And then, the answer to every one of those questions hit me all at once: It was a dream. Just a dream. Oh. And then I got out of bed.
And then I went about my day. Like nothing happened last night. Like nothing happened. Which should be surprising.

It should be surprising because I was just lied to by my very own brain. And I accepted that as the normal course of business. My unconscious mind made up some tall tale, scared the bejesus out of me, and exploited its close relationship with me to assure me of its truthfulness. As it caught me getting suspicious, it gaslighted me with some fellow passengers who strongly implied that I was the one with questionable sanity. You can’t deny that that’s some coldblooded psychological warfare right there.

And yet, deny I did. I went on to place blind faith in this mendacious organ to lead me through the day, to ascertain what is true, to discard what is false, to make sound judgements about my safety and prosperity for the rest of my life.

It’s a nightly routine that I go through, and that you do too. We go to sleep, subject ourselves to the purest form of deception, wake up, acknowledge the campaign of disinformation, shrug off the propaganda, and, heaven forbid, subject the dream’s recounting on others, as I have just done to you.

Ladies! If your man comes home at 5AM, whiskey on his breath, lipstick on his collar, glitter on his chest, and insists he was just held up at work, you dump his sorry, lyin’, cheatin’ ass, and never let him in your home again.

But that’s not the relationship we have with our brain. We catch it in lie after lie and continue to treat it as being on our sides.

I say we should more closely examine the relationship we have with our brain. That bond is, upon inspection, pretty dark. It’s abusive. It is tainted by storytelling billed as reality. Look no further than dreams, well-documented psychological biases, and optical illusions to know it actively lies to us. So, we should trust our intuition less. We should assume our assumptions less. We should be skeptical about what we know to be true.

Home by Rob Robson

A response to the Home prompt

My home is a place where my soulemate, where my family lives. Both in my appartment and in the house of my parants I feel comfortable, surrounded with love, pleasure and happiness!

Describe the last dream you vividly remember. What happened in it?

Respond to the prompt here.

by Lola

A response to the Home prompt (original post here)

So where are you from?

I got that question a lot when I was in New York City a few months ago. Never really knew what to reply.

“I live in London!”

But you don't sound British?

“Yeah, I'm from Poland.”

But sometimes I'd get a different one.

Where’s home?

“Oh”, I would think to myself, “that’s a good one”

Where is home? Is it a place? A feeling? Is it static or does it change over time? Is it an aspiration? Real or fictional? Identity or community? Both? Or just a space between walls?

I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I don’t have a good answer yet. Home is singing out loud in the car with my sister. Any car, really. Home is cooking dinner for old friends and new ones with a few bottles of wine. Home is walking in NYC and feeling that you are exactly where you’re supposed to be. Home is smelling my mom’s bolognese sauce simmering from another room. It’s the lake in my hometown I used to run to when I needed to breathe. Home is seeing a childhood friend for the first time in a while and knowing that even if you haven’t spoken much recently, you’ve got each other’s back. Home is music. Home is finding old family pictures in a shoebox. Hot showers and cold sheets. Home is both where you come from and what you aspire to build, it is past and future all at once.

It's a bit long, though. Maybe a bit much?

“Is there anything I can do for you dear? Is there anyone I could call?” “No and thank you, please Madam. I ain't lost, just wandering” – Adèle

Home by Dino

A response to the Home prompt

A lot of people are probably familiar with the old proverb, “home is where the heart is.” I find that old proverb to still ring true today.

Home to me is not a country, a city or a place. Home is where my family is. Home is where my wife and kids are. Home is where my dad and mom and siblings are. Home is where my trusted friends are.

Expanding on that thought, I believe it is possible to never be truly at home at a given point in time. Like right now for instance, I have my family with me, but my close friends are not anywhere nearby.

We should cherish the time we spend with whoever we consider part of our “home.” As eventually the time will come when we all have leave this world.

Where and what is home for you? What does it feel like, smell like, sound like?

Respond to the prompt here.