Can't sleep -- make up stuff to write
It’s just another one of those nights when I try to go to bed slightly earlier than usual, but can’t fall asleep. So, the time has come to write something. Something like this:
The ocean pulsates against billions of ruddy granules of tiny rock. Evening sunlight transforms the blonde shoreline to echoes of dried blood. The paltry waves strain to gain enough momentum to roll back and forth. Scents of brine and fish fade as the heat disperses into the past. Imprints of toes fade as the oscillating sea rises over the near-infinite grains. A sand piper snatches a sand crab from the surf, while scavenging seagulls replace the wandering, shoeless humans.
Well, that certainly is a horrible clichéd image. Clichéd as it was, It was difficult to write. Let me try it like this:
She lifted her flip-flops out of the sand. Paying strict attention to where she placed her feet with each step, she suddenly became aware of the lighting.
“Only the longest wavelengths can make the extreme angle,” she thought before she noticed its beauty.
She turned to see the ocean, weakly lapping against the shore of blood-red sand. The last bit of sun peaked over the horizon; in a flash, the blood was replaced with cold azure and the sun was gone.
On a side note, I’ve been told that the second the sun drops below the horizon there is a flash. I’ve never seen it. Anyway, since I’ve already got the present tense and pass tense thing, I’m going to use the first person past -- my favorite.
The damn bird stole my lunch; you can’t turn your back on those damn birds for a second. Despite losing my snack, I experience the strangest thing; although, I did have a whole mess of sand in my pants; some of which, I did intentionally put there; that wasn’t the strange thing. Just moments before the sun went down, the entire beach turned blood red. Somehow, the combination of lighting, the ocean, and lingering memories of the past, I felt a strong urge to go fishing. Just as the memories of fishing with my father came to me, the sun disappeared and in a flash, the night sky dominated the landscape and my urge to fish quickly faded. I have always hated fishing.
Anyway, at least I wrote some stuff -- pretty pointless.
Now for the poem:
Damn it! I can’t come up with anything -- some other time then.
Wait wait...unrevised, stream of consciousness equals a bad poem, but I will do it anyway.
Slender fingers
and a wrinkled smile
The cold and warmth lost
in the newfound discovery
orange blossoms
colorless and fragrant
senses betray reality
reason discovers
the dilemma
of truth.
The ocean pulsates against billions of ruddy granules of tiny rock. Evening sunlight transforms the blonde shoreline to echoes of dried blood. The paltry waves strain to gain enough momentum to roll back and forth. Scents of brine and fish fade as the heat disperses into the past. Imprints of toes fade as the oscillating sea rises over the near-infinite grains. A sand piper snatches a sand crab from the surf, while scavenging seagulls replace the wandering, shoeless humans.
Well, that certainly is a horrible clichéd image. Clichéd as it was, It was difficult to write. Let me try it like this:
She lifted her flip-flops out of the sand. Paying strict attention to where she placed her feet with each step, she suddenly became aware of the lighting.
“Only the longest wavelengths can make the extreme angle,” she thought before she noticed its beauty.
She turned to see the ocean, weakly lapping against the shore of blood-red sand. The last bit of sun peaked over the horizon; in a flash, the blood was replaced with cold azure and the sun was gone.
On a side note, I’ve been told that the second the sun drops below the horizon there is a flash. I’ve never seen it. Anyway, since I’ve already got the present tense and pass tense thing, I’m going to use the first person past -- my favorite.
The damn bird stole my lunch; you can’t turn your back on those damn birds for a second. Despite losing my snack, I experience the strangest thing; although, I did have a whole mess of sand in my pants; some of which, I did intentionally put there; that wasn’t the strange thing. Just moments before the sun went down, the entire beach turned blood red. Somehow, the combination of lighting, the ocean, and lingering memories of the past, I felt a strong urge to go fishing. Just as the memories of fishing with my father came to me, the sun disappeared and in a flash, the night sky dominated the landscape and my urge to fish quickly faded. I have always hated fishing.
Anyway, at least I wrote some stuff -- pretty pointless.
Now for the poem:
Damn it! I can’t come up with anything -- some other time then.
Wait wait...unrevised, stream of consciousness equals a bad poem, but I will do it anyway.
Slender fingers
and a wrinkled smile
The cold and warmth lost
in the newfound discovery
orange blossoms
colorless and fragrant
senses betray reality
reason discovers
the dilemma
of truth.