Today, I did something I haven't done in a long time. I wrote something that has no purpose other than to exercise my own imagination, tune out of the buzzing, crawling world, and float in dreamland. I'm somewhat of a sporadic writer -- I only write when inspiration strikes, and more often than not, that inspiration takes the form of the almighty Deadline. School deadlines, contest deadlines, I-should-probably-reply-to-that-email-but-you-know-what-I-haven't-written-anything-good-in-ages pseudo-deadlines brought on by avoiding responsibilities -- you name it, I've written because of it.
But the only deadline I ran after today was the I-want-to-write deadline, which isn't exactly a deadline because I can write whenever I want. For whatever reason, that particular idea is absurdly hard for me to grasp. I think I'm finally getting the hang of it -- just in time for college, a time in my life where I definitely don't want to put writing for myself by the wayside.
While I'm making progress, I'm going to go for it and post a tidbit of what I've written here. After all , the worst thing that could possibly happen is that someone might read it.
There was something beautiful in that house at the end of road. It advertised its antiquity with shutters on the verge of unhinging, paint peeling like papery garlic skin from its once-white façade. Vines curled through gaps in the windows glass, delicate green eyelashes. You thought you heard them whisper your name in their shuffling tendrils.
With the moon, the vines danced in the light, turning iridescent buds toward the sky.
You can’t find the name of the buds, even in the most comprehensive books on botany. You tell yourself that the plants are the reason you bought the house.
No comments:
Post a Comment