i don’t write enough

by think_likeafox


no pictures this morning. mostly because i don’t have the resource to find one at the moment.

i shall be trying something new. something i probably will forget, but it’s the trying that counts.

i do not write enough, even though i write everyday. i miss creativity. i have another blog called “the story hour” – you dedicate one hour a week or every two to crafting a short story from a picture and submit it to the blog for comment and critique. i thought surely even i can find an hour, but i succumb to laziness. the idea is still appealing, perhaps i will keep trying (and you should too! once I include the proper link) but for now…

in much the same way as when i draw or paint, i am intrigued by examining tiny portions of things. a hand, part of a shoe. extreme close up. macro. i love to craft little scenes, no intro, no ending, just action. i think i will try to do this more regularly, and share them here. simply because, who does not want to be read? they won’t always be of the same nature. i figured i should warn you first.

today’s bit is more stream of conscience, something i might use writing a feature…

“Sometimes the world so fiercely reminds you of the innocence of childhood. A smell, a sight, a sound and suddenly you’re transported to a new familiar place, a remembered when. On the street car this morning, a sea of distracted faces, safely lost in books or screens or food. Few letting the wiles of their imagination impede.

But oh, how the pungency of nothing but a mere whiff of screen recalls bright summer days in cotton shorts and tees, sandals and sneakers. The anticipation of adventure. Even the long ago mingled sounds of children jabbering together, a palpable excitement that rolls over them like waves. No one feels excitement like a child.

Will today bring the exotic lure of the ocean surf and sand between our toes? Or the heavy adventure of crashing through jungles in search of treasure, chasing friend and foe, fleeing unseen jungle beasts creeping up from behind.

A sword fight with found sticks our blades, we imagine the gleaming metal glows in the sunshine as we clash, we duel to the death.

Fresh mulberries from a giant’s tree, flipping pancakes, and chasing ribbons with eggs on spoons or our legs tangled in pillow cases used as sacks. The joy of flowers, their fragility unknown, their beauty an expected presence. Or butterflies flitting from here to there, chasing their wings, hoping to catch one but never wanting to at all.

Those were summer days.”

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