I'm a posting machine tonight!
Creative writing - cuz i haven't let it go off in a while:
In the room I live breaths many different people. Female, male, tall, blond, short, tan, curly, straight, crocked, pale, mean, sweet, soft hearted, pig headed...people. My walls warp and bend to create a place for each of them - a small cramped room, a large dinning room, a hospital bed, a bar. The windows here mean nothing - weather it's daybreak, dawn, or dusk - it could be any season, any year - either 1763, or 2050. They could be dead, or ghosts, or memory's, vampires, athletes, bum's. They're all living here, in the mirror, on scraps of paper, breathing out of every peace of cloth, every drop of sweat, every opened book.
If I let my imagination run wild, I'm not alone. There are people here with me, talking in loud voice over the piano at the bar, typing away in the library next to me while writing their mid-term paper on their career ideas, enjoying a good cup of tea and chatting about the weather in a cafe in England. People answer when I call out - they smile at me in my minds eye. I feel them moving, hear them breathing, let my self run away with what I want to be there.
Most of the time I play along - I am the cowboy riding along side the train, I'm the woman who can save the world, I'm the little girl who's lost everything in the fire, I'm the first motocross winner at the age of 16. I could pick lily's, brew a potion, drink whine, have blue hair, grow wings - because I need to have them. It's part of the story after all - for you can't be a princess without you blanket and a pillow case that makes up you dress, you can't be that fighter without those ratty cut-off gloves and rubber-bands to hold them on. You can't be that bounty hunter without your scarred leg wrapped in a blanket and your pen as a throwing knife. Props help make it seem even more real - so when you duck around the corner of you chimney and hold your 'gun' to you chest waiting for the bad guy to follow you, your heart is beating a mile a minuet and your palms are sweaty. So that you sing with a hair brush at the top of you lungs in the living room, imagining a field of people cheering at you, adrenalin kicks in and you sing louder.
It's hard to understand why anyone would give that up - the ability to be anyone, anywhere, at any time. Why wouldn't you want to fly? Why not rob a bank? Fight in a war against a land with swords and fellow knights? Be a queen one moment, and a thief another? Ride a dragon, catch a fish with your bear hands in the woods with fellow indians? To face reality - girls, school, cars, tests, homework, lessons, college, work, life.
It doesn't make seance.
But everyone does it. Well, almost everyone. So you can work on your homework and study for tests - I'll be waiting in my tower at the center of a living forest for my one true love to rescue me the best they can. I'll save the world - you work for an hour. I'll be the greatest cook ever - you watch TV and eat chips.
If it makes me immature, so be it. I'm rather happy this way.
In the room I live breaths many different people. Female, male, tall, blond, short, tan, curly, straight, crocked, pale, mean, sweet, soft hearted, pig headed...people. My walls warp and bend to create a place for each of them - a small cramped room, a large dinning room, a hospital bed, a bar. The windows here mean nothing - weather it's daybreak, dawn, or dusk - it could be any season, any year - either 1763, or 2050. They could be dead, or ghosts, or memory's, vampires, athletes, bum's. They're all living here, in the mirror, on scraps of paper, breathing out of every peace of cloth, every drop of sweat, every opened book.
If I let my imagination run wild, I'm not alone. There are people here with me, talking in loud voice over the piano at the bar, typing away in the library next to me while writing their mid-term paper on their career ideas, enjoying a good cup of tea and chatting about the weather in a cafe in England. People answer when I call out - they smile at me in my minds eye. I feel them moving, hear them breathing, let my self run away with what I want to be there.
Most of the time I play along - I am the cowboy riding along side the train, I'm the woman who can save the world, I'm the little girl who's lost everything in the fire, I'm the first motocross winner at the age of 16. I could pick lily's, brew a potion, drink whine, have blue hair, grow wings - because I need to have them. It's part of the story after all - for you can't be a princess without you blanket and a pillow case that makes up you dress, you can't be that fighter without those ratty cut-off gloves and rubber-bands to hold them on. You can't be that bounty hunter without your scarred leg wrapped in a blanket and your pen as a throwing knife. Props help make it seem even more real - so when you duck around the corner of you chimney and hold your 'gun' to you chest waiting for the bad guy to follow you, your heart is beating a mile a minuet and your palms are sweaty. So that you sing with a hair brush at the top of you lungs in the living room, imagining a field of people cheering at you, adrenalin kicks in and you sing louder.
It's hard to understand why anyone would give that up - the ability to be anyone, anywhere, at any time. Why wouldn't you want to fly? Why not rob a bank? Fight in a war against a land with swords and fellow knights? Be a queen one moment, and a thief another? Ride a dragon, catch a fish with your bear hands in the woods with fellow indians? To face reality - girls, school, cars, tests, homework, lessons, college, work, life.
It doesn't make seance.
But everyone does it. Well, almost everyone. So you can work on your homework and study for tests - I'll be waiting in my tower at the center of a living forest for my one true love to rescue me the best they can. I'll save the world - you work for an hour. I'll be the greatest cook ever - you watch TV and eat chips.
If it makes me immature, so be it. I'm rather happy this way.