Writing Contest Result

I didn't win a prize in the final round of that writing contest. I won a hug instead and a pat on the back saying keep going from the man who loves me. Next time.

Disappointed I am, I was striving to make something go that extra mile. An hour a night.

But I'll keep writing instead and leave a few precious quotes bellow that have all ways stirred my fingers.

"You do not get something, simply because you want it." 

"My heart has joined the thousand for my friend stopped running today." -- Watership Down 

"Those who stand for nothing, fall for anything"

Even the Fierce Die --- Bunny

"I'm here to save the world.... Are you ready?"

Death, what do you all know about Death? --- Children of Bodom

Shifting Branches

I had to move some branches. Ye old swing tree at the bottom of my mother and father's garden had given two of it's branches packed lunches before saying good bye and hurling them to the ground.

My brother, lovely and strong as he is, tried to shift them but with out chopping them up. I had to say when I heard it, he mustn't have tried very hard but the next day when I gave it a go, I say shit son, this needs some chopping. So chop I did, or rather saw. With all the muscular strength of a Jane Austen Heroin I spent the majority of the morning cursing foliage before hauling it up the yard. At the same time, praising the genius of the humans who though, "Why don't I make something large and four legged like a horse, cow, caribou, or elephant pull it instead of me. And then after give the helpful friend lots of yummy sandwiches?"

Thus is the tale of me moving branches about fifty feet.

I'm writing again. YAY.

Why Doesn't it fit the way You Do

Why doesn't this fit like you do? I ask Will about my ring. The ring. Well the second. I've been pondering over my ring. Its the thing your "supposed" to get when you get married. How will people know other wise? How will they understand?

I keep running into trouble though.

I got one and it was too loose, too modern and was  a purchase under pressure.

I've just got a new one, ordered online. Its loose, and just feels so big on my finger. Overstated?

Here I am fretting over the most first of first world problems. I'm frustrated by unhappiness over something so stupid. Its then I remember a sad, sorry little ring given to me among a box of junk by a mad old alcoholic, who, perhaps was just looking for a friend. The wee little ring was once white gold, tarnished with age, and at least one of its stones, whether real or fake, was missing from the side. Yet the moment I put it on my finger, I felt it fit like a glove and it didn't matter where the heck it came from. It would have a new start with me.

I carried it across Germany, and into the wilds of Scotland, where the course of my life would change for ever. It saved my bacon once when a polite man asked if I was engaged. I said know and remembered for the first time, in a long time, that men could like me and there was no reason for me to feel ashamed, and no one else to hold me back.

I thought I lost it after that trip. But when I returned a second time, I pulled a box of my things out of the attic, left behind so I could move over a little easier. The jeans needed a awash and when I flung open the warm drier drawers, there was it, gleaming at the bottom of the drum.

I wore it there after, as I always did, on my left hand, until the day I couldn't find it anymore.

Now as I am faced with real wedding issues, I think back on that little ring that gave me such faith and comfort as before and wish these ones fit so well as it.

But its not important. Its only a ring and even if I have to search for the right ring for the rest of my life, a hobby I will most defiantly stick on the very back burner, I don't really care if a rings never found, because its not the ring that's most important in all this. Its the man.

I Still Have Imaginary Friends.

Words from a raving lunatic.

Its a thing, I suppose, that at a young age we're supposed to drop imaginary friends. We're supposed to grow up and get on with life by ourselves.

I didn't. But I passed it off as writing, it is writing, light hearted writing. Hobby writing. I made myself four characters and took them from my early teens, all the way to adult hood.

This doesn't mean I sat in corners as an adult, colouring the black vortex of hell, and whispering haunting quotes to passers by who bravely ventured a look over my shoulder.

It means that in the silent moments on the bus, when I've only got my music, I imagined I had a friend next to me. Not a pink elephant, though there is nothing wrong with that. Just a person. They weren't someone I knew in real life. That would have meant bending to the rules of said real person's personality.

Mind you I did add some supernatural elements, but why not? If my mind is a canvas, why would I limit my imagination to reality?

I've carried these four characters through nearly every event since early high school. On a lonely bus ride to university. On a first day in class when every face was a stranger. Or when life wasn't going right. I pretended to have someone by my side, someone to bounce ideas, or emotions off of. Someone stronger, or even weaker, but someone. They've grown with me too. The stories or scenarios I put them through represent the growing person and the growing woman. They reflected the changing personal landscape of my life and bore many of its worst scars for me, making it easier for me to face the next day.

I think Imaginary friends helped children cope with tough things in life and there's nothing wrong with an adult using the same thing, but in a more adult like context. I don't mean openly asking for advice to an empty (or not empty chair), I mean creating an internal dialogue, and thinking of various scenarios.

Perhaps its the writer in me, but when I get a silent moment, when I'm scared, its nice, as an adult to not feel alone,  to feel for a second like there is someone out there. Its a story, and they are characters, and there is no harm in making me one of those characters.

I'm sure other people deal with things differently.

Perhaps that's what people who have a firm grasp on a religion do.

I'm Dying to Write

I'm dying to write.

It feels like a kettle in my belly. I feel it boiling away, thrashing inside of me. Out it wants out.

But my time has not been my own.

All the echoing voices require my attention and the kettle keeps boiling. I must write. I must point pen to paper. I must lay ink down, press finger tips to keys and make more then the rumblings of my mind. I need to make a story, pressed the walls of my imagination and see what takes form.

If I don't I can become stony with emotional weight, or lash out and burn someone who gets too close. I become uncomfortable and even work can trip and fall over a distracted mind. I can feel it. Its been boiling faster now.

The changes coming, the changes left behind because there was no second to look at them. I feel it boiling inside me.

And the kettle will no longer boil if I can pour it into a cup. It becomes settled, natural, tea.

I need to write. I need to make the words and pages in my mind come alive.

My friends

Sometimes you just miss your friends. I'm back on the same continent as them and I don't feel like I am. I was so rushed around at first and then there were announcements and then there was work. 

Already a month on and I feel l dreamed them.

It been so long since I've been around my is friends. I miss it, or I feel as though I missing out on something.

I would like to slow down. Squeeze me out some time and be among my friends again.

Note to self: Make more time in life.