(no subject)
I'm taking this creative writing class, and we do this cool exercise called a free write. The instructor gives us a prompt, a song, and object, something, and we just write whatever it makes us think. We've done two so far, and I think my stuff was pretty good.
Free Write 1:
It's true what they say, about the bright light you see as you die. And your life really does flash before your eyes. Every moment, every acomplishment, every failure. They just play out, embarassment equal to pride, sorrow equal to joy, no memory more important than the next. Maybe this is what they call the final judgement, your entire life played back, viewed and filed by some cosmic librarian. Maybe it's just your brain's response to the trauma of death. Either way, I wasn't enjoying it.
(I've got a good idea to build a story on this)
Free Write 2:
The hands of a creator are awe inspiring. The eye of the creator is even more so. From a block of wood, the eye visualizes an eagle, a bear. With tender care the hand realizes the eye's vision. Slowly, carefully the shapes take form. What is it in the human soul that gives us the ability and desire to create? Is it the desire to move past our humanity, to become God? Is it the desire to leave something behind, so that when we die we might live on in what we create? Whatever it is, we have the ability. It calls to us, we're addicted to it. Like junkies, we think about it when we're awake and we dream about it when we sleep. The artist's hands itch like the junkie's veins. A fire burns in us, a righteous fire of creation, the human condition.
That's it, I don't think they're bad. I certainly enjoyed the exercise.
I'm proud of the person I am.
Cthulu still dreams in sunken R'lyeh.
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons, even death may die.
Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.
Free Write 1:
It's true what they say, about the bright light you see as you die. And your life really does flash before your eyes. Every moment, every acomplishment, every failure. They just play out, embarassment equal to pride, sorrow equal to joy, no memory more important than the next. Maybe this is what they call the final judgement, your entire life played back, viewed and filed by some cosmic librarian. Maybe it's just your brain's response to the trauma of death. Either way, I wasn't enjoying it.
(I've got a good idea to build a story on this)
Free Write 2:
The hands of a creator are awe inspiring. The eye of the creator is even more so. From a block of wood, the eye visualizes an eagle, a bear. With tender care the hand realizes the eye's vision. Slowly, carefully the shapes take form. What is it in the human soul that gives us the ability and desire to create? Is it the desire to move past our humanity, to become God? Is it the desire to leave something behind, so that when we die we might live on in what we create? Whatever it is, we have the ability. It calls to us, we're addicted to it. Like junkies, we think about it when we're awake and we dream about it when we sleep. The artist's hands itch like the junkie's veins. A fire burns in us, a righteous fire of creation, the human condition.
That's it, I don't think they're bad. I certainly enjoyed the exercise.
I'm proud of the person I am.
Cthulu still dreams in sunken R'lyeh.
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons, even death may die.
Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.