yourdailypasserby

[yourdailypasserby]

one day you’ll have written a novel of your own.

you’ll be able to hold it in your hands, feel the weight of it - each chapter, each page, each word that you so lovingly crafted. you’ll be able to watch each scene, something you built and tended and know most intimately, unfold beneath your hands again with every turn of the page. you’ll be able to run your thumb down the spine of the book and feel the shape of your name pressed into the side, because this is yours.

so keep writing. because your novel is just waiting for you to bring it into existence.

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Well————— this is fun.

Amidst the storm, that’s when writing is always helpful more.

I once declared that sad times call for a piece of tragic poems, full of conspiracy for and from the broken-hearted, cups and cups of apathy and bitterness of anything but coffee. I always have thought that I breathe angst, bitter(sweet)ness. I have always turned sweet little things tragic, and I sometimes have caught myself being proud of it. Only sadness has spoken to me, channeling sweet and melodious, rhythmic inspiration of prose and poetry; only sadness that has been my fuel, my ink and glorious pen for life.

I didn’t find happiness to be encouraging to pour into words, framed into my unprinted book of fictional, yet real life-based, works. I’ve always felt that happiness must be preserved by living it, by being in it, cherishing it, dwelling in it as long as it lasts. Happiness does not require a short story with an open ending; it requires us to be there.

And so I haven’t produced anything worthwhile since it struck me. Probably.

Is this where I turn a supposedly beautiful prose apathetic?

Shit. I just can’t write romance, can I?

Let’s talk about the cheesiest of cheese: love. Even my logic is repulsed to write down my own. I never write my happy love stories, only the bad ones. Never been too lucky with it anyway. So when this on-going three-years-old-something hits me, it got me all philosophical. As always.

This is where I write down every annoying and possibly forced descriptions of love I could think of. It’s first started after watching one of TV series with possibly the most annoying finale that I’ve ever watched. A tingling feeling approached me and I felt kinda weird but happy at the same time.

I thought of him and how all the lights in my mind suddenly goes on in a calming evening suburban white light. It’s really hard to force good things out of the end of my pen. I actually feel like giving up right now. This is probably why doing poems is a lot easier than prose, dammit.

What I wrote:

THIS IS WHEN I TRY TO SPELL OUT

H A P P I N E S S

They told me about the clouds. Nine, to be exact.     It may be seven or less. No one really knows for a fact.

It is an abstract concept of no permanent; one that doesn’t last,    one that always ends.

The title said "spell out” but I’m describing it anyway.    it doesn’t matter; it doesn’t make sense either way.

Happiness may sound surreal, like it’s never here in the first place.    (I keep making the rhymes as not to lose face.)

See? It’s hard to write happiness because letters won’t do it justice.    It is felt, it is cherished. It’s a blessing that sends my creativity on crisis.

*I couldn’t even get the fucking line straight

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I would like to leave this city This old town don't smell too pretty And I can feel the warning signs running around my mind And when I leave this island I book myself into a soul asylum I can feel the warning signs running around my mind So here I go I'm still scratching around in the same old hole My body feels young but my mind is very old So what do you say? You can't give me the dreams that are mine anyway You're half the world away You're half the world away And when I leave this planet You know I'd stay but I just can't stand it And I can feel the warning signs running around my mind And if I can leave this spirit I'll find me a hole and I'll live in it And I can feel the warning signs running around my mind So here I go I'm still scratching around in the same old hole My body feels young but my mind is very old So what do you say? You can't give me the dreams that are mine anyway You're half the world away You're half the world away You're half the world away I've been lost, I've been found But I don't feel down You're half the world away I've been lost, I've been found But I don't feel down I don't feel down

[yourdailypasserby]

And if I had the time and I could live a different life...

California Sky, Greyson Chance

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Where would we walk? Where would we run? If we could stay all day in the sun?

Part of Your World (Reprise), Disney

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Lost Words by Michael Faudet

A midnight scribble,

a morning sigh,

you watch the words,

curl up and die.

Madness lives

inside your head,

of poems lost,

and pages dead.

A mind possessed,

by unmade books,

unwritten lines

on empty hooks.

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“What happened to the Monday nights? We would fall asleep at three.”

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Look seeker, if you love a character, you give them pain, ruin their lives, make them suffer. Maybe even throw in a heroic death!

Varric Tethras

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Poet was a nightingale who sits in a darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

Mary Wollstonecraft-Shelley

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Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.

Rousseau

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A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.

Emily Dickinson

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