Saturday, February 05, 2005
it's only during odd times like this that i suddenly feel the urge to write...the urge to weave thoughts into wprds...my thoughts...my words...ive always been more able to put into words what i thought more ably than to hear me actually speak them...somehow, the lack of confidence, perhaps, or sth, just holds me bac from saying them out loud. ive always preferred to put them into words of the written form, somehow i just feel better and much more comfortable...what i can't seem to voice out, im able to, in my own time, put them into writing. i havnt written in a long time, not the stories that i crave to write. i cant seem to find any inspiration to do so. i used to get sparks of inspiration from the oddest things. a word rom the song that i hear? sth ive seen on the television? a picture? i'd get an idea in my head.one that cld remain stuck there for a long time unless i found the time to put them into writing. the satisfaction with knowing that ive written a gd story is sth that i crave for. i can't will inspiration to strike me, that much i know.. and having to work hard at thinking of a story sometimes jus dun turn out favourably. of cos there hav been times when it happened, when im under a time limit to write an essay, like that during an exam, these bright sparks of inspiration do strike me. but it seems they call upon me less and less. or am i not watching out for them? so preoccupied am i with other things that bog my mind. i'd rmb times when lines wld enter my head n i jus had to scribble them down somewhere, uncaring of whether they made sense. i'd jot down ideas, write poems that i show only to the closest of friends. i wish i could revisit all these again. i want to start writing again. i want to feel the heady rush of ideas as they pour into my mind, as my mind explore the seemingly endless possibilities in which the story cld begin, or end. and write i will..
blaque stepped into the dark at 4:58 PM!
me
I stare up at the pure white ceiling
fans whirring softly
A deathly silence in the room
Fear grips me by the throat
As I watch Death slowly glide
My wrinkled hand grips the bedsheet
As I begin a silent litany of prayer
He glides past the sleeping child
in the opposite bed
past the lady gazing listlessly towards the window
I struggle to breathe
Strange wheezing noises
The demons within me rage
Wreaking havoc
As my feeble heart sputters and chokes
My eyes close in pain
Flying open
In shocked remembrance
To see
His dark hand reach for me
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