It is impossible to truly experience another person’s dream. It is impossible to see it, to experience it, in the same way as the person who dreamed it. No matter how eloquent the verbiage used in the telling, you are not designed to feel and
I write where I see empty lines; spaces perfect for subverting the cacophony of dark thoughts and black places that lives inside my head. I write nonsense and useless facts in an attempt to pick the debris from the landscape of my mind.
But it never fails, the muse flails around about chapter four or so and just meanders off, mumbling to herself, “What the hell was that? That was crap. I can inspire and write better than this, so why am I not doing it?!?! This is shit, scrap it.”
Burning up and burning bright; Fleeting and momentary Like stars blinking out of existance. A flickering candle; A passing ghost. A whisper in a corridor; A passing fancy, Withering like a flower torn from the root. Pouring everything out- The lungs that have forgotten how
The General’s eyes gleamed with a golden light, as he watched his fellow commander descend upon the fight. The glory bought this day in blood more than what was owed. As his fellow commander landed his hope grew, with renewed strength he lifted his short
“No. This day is not lost. I will not retreat. I will not be defeated.” She stood, glaring at the weak-willed men before her. “And you are fools if you think the advice of me and mine is giving lightly to those outside our own circles.”