Comme un oiseau qui vole.
WHY AM I SO TIRED??
I slept plenty! My eyes hurt T_T
And I don't think I spelled "bird" correctly. -_-
I remember when I would constantly hope for a spare moment so I could add a few brief sentences to whatever I was working on writing at the time. Now I've only been at work an hour, I'm already bored, I've got eleven mostly-free hours ahead of me, and I can't even dredge up the motivation to do a freewrite.
Does burnout ever end?
Just do it you dumbass.
C'est la seule fantaisie sign.
What the hell?
I don't understand it. I don't understand how a world can keep turning day after day without rhyme or reason. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know why I'm doing this. I'm just typing the first words that come into my head and it looks like this time it's not even a story.
A woman standing on a beach, the cool sand of the morning slipping between her toes. Birds flying overhead. Sunlight shining, rising higher, warming the sand beneath her but not yet hot enough to be uncomfortable. The waves rolling, sinking and rising again with the rhythm of forgotten ages.
The sea was such an interesting thing. It could be calm, soothing, its endless patterns as dependable and even as a heartbeat, the crashing surf able to send a person into dreamland as surely as a mother's comforting arms.
There was also the fury. Beneath the quiet even waters lurked an indescribable power, the strength to rend asunder and destroy any creation of man. Cruel winds and crushing waves could come from that very same ocean, what was once a friend becoming a ruthless enemy. A woman scorned hath no fury like a relentless churning sea.
It gives and it takes at its whim, leaving all other forces on the planet powerless to stop it. How like a human being, really, so easily influenced by minute changes in its environment, small factors building in a creshendo, small storms becoming raging tempests. So easily a friend becomes an enemy, an enemy becomes a friend, past transgressions vanishing into a new calm but always the potential lurks beneath the surface for a new anger.
Where, then, lies the difference? There is only one ocean. There are many of us. We have the power to build off one another, to come together in a massive storm stronger than any force an individual could muster. So, also, can we calm one another, can we derail a misconception or misunderstanding before the hurricane becomes too large to control. We are our own instigators and our own mediating forces. As no ocean is fully separate from the influences of the others, so no man is an island. We have the power to choose which strength to exercise: the constructive or the destructive.
...
*rereads*
What the hell?
Freewrites are blocks of prose written without planning, without editing, and without looking back. I just type out whatever comes to mind directly into LiveJournal with as little thinking as possible. It may be good. It may not. It might not even make any sense. I don't care. It keeps me writing and that's the important thing.
I slept plenty! My eyes hurt T_T
And I don't think I spelled "bird" correctly. -_-
I remember when I would constantly hope for a spare moment so I could add a few brief sentences to whatever I was working on writing at the time. Now I've only been at work an hour, I'm already bored, I've got eleven mostly-free hours ahead of me, and I can't even dredge up the motivation to do a freewrite.
Does burnout ever end?
Just do it you dumbass.
C'est la seule fantaisie sign.
What the hell?
I don't understand it. I don't understand how a world can keep turning day after day without rhyme or reason. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know why I'm doing this. I'm just typing the first words that come into my head and it looks like this time it's not even a story.
A woman standing on a beach, the cool sand of the morning slipping between her toes. Birds flying overhead. Sunlight shining, rising higher, warming the sand beneath her but not yet hot enough to be uncomfortable. The waves rolling, sinking and rising again with the rhythm of forgotten ages.
The sea was such an interesting thing. It could be calm, soothing, its endless patterns as dependable and even as a heartbeat, the crashing surf able to send a person into dreamland as surely as a mother's comforting arms.
There was also the fury. Beneath the quiet even waters lurked an indescribable power, the strength to rend asunder and destroy any creation of man. Cruel winds and crushing waves could come from that very same ocean, what was once a friend becoming a ruthless enemy. A woman scorned hath no fury like a relentless churning sea.
It gives and it takes at its whim, leaving all other forces on the planet powerless to stop it. How like a human being, really, so easily influenced by minute changes in its environment, small factors building in a creshendo, small storms becoming raging tempests. So easily a friend becomes an enemy, an enemy becomes a friend, past transgressions vanishing into a new calm but always the potential lurks beneath the surface for a new anger.
Where, then, lies the difference? There is only one ocean. There are many of us. We have the power to build off one another, to come together in a massive storm stronger than any force an individual could muster. So, also, can we calm one another, can we derail a misconception or misunderstanding before the hurricane becomes too large to control. We are our own instigators and our own mediating forces. As no ocean is fully separate from the influences of the others, so no man is an island. We have the power to choose which strength to exercise: the constructive or the destructive.
...
*rereads*
What the hell?
Freewrites are blocks of prose written without planning, without editing, and without looking back. I just type out whatever comes to mind directly into LiveJournal with as little thinking as possible. It may be good. It may not. It might not even make any sense. I don't care. It keeps me writing and that's the important thing.