I slept badly, last night
I didn’t want the day to end,
Even though there was nothing special about it.
Some days are like that,
Days that don’t want to leave.
Last night I had a good streak of writing, it was beautiful.
Then I stayed up a little late.
I ruined a good thing.
I hope I can fall asleep earlier tomorrow.
A little bit of journaling © Christopher Stamfors
I’ve worked rather hard, recently.
They make us work 24 hours, sometimes, today I worked 32
Did a lot of writing, regardless – not my best work.
I think I might be a bit tired, at least for this particular story.
I got a few days rest, maybe I should work on something else
I have one other.
Fool’s Tower, it is called.
It’s a bit of journaling © Christopher Stamfors
I remember that yesterday was good,
It was the day before yesterday and I want it
Good days are rare
I had one five and a half years ago
And I’m still writing
I’ll die any second now.
I had a good day, yesterday
I played a game, wrote a little
I didn’t have anything to drink though except tea
Drinks happen sometimes
You can have good days without drink, bad ones too
Sometimes I lie, for whom?
Writing is saying the truth, at least it should be.
I like hearing the clinks and clanks of the typewriter, that’s the main reason I’m writing today, I think.
If you look passed the trees you’ll see that you don’t. You can’t, because there are trees in the way.
There are ruins after ruins along the road. Sometimes hidden, sometimes plainly seen.
It’s not a dead world, the ruins are just evidence of the past.
At night they become especially visible, which is ironic.
By the water they live
From the darkness they hide
From the endless forests,
To the misty mountains
With bottomless caves
And endless deeps
She wants to keep them.
He wants them away.
The Enemy wants to capture them
And the father wants them saved.
The navy can’t do anything because the enemy is there.
She doesn’t abide by anyone and is the lord of the land.
The father is lord over other lands and doesn’t hold any sway.
And He is lord of nothing and must watch and wait
for things to come his way.
The moon was full and the wind was wild as the tree-tops rustled.
The streetlights gave a faint glow from the dark leaves that encompassed them.
Black blotches of their shadows danced on the pavement,
Softly
Hard
until they were still – like a painting on the ground.
There’s magic during nights like these – it’s the reason why the wind blows so hard.
Everything that isn’t supposed to be stirs to life
All at once.
Procrastinating is a filthy word but a common one, we all do it, especially when you can’t get it right. I get scared to continue because I don’t want to face my inequities, that’s my excuse anyway, that’s what keeps me from writing.
And who can blame me? I have so many ideas to realise but I have finished none, no books anyway… Maybe I can’t? Maybe short fiction is for me and books are beyond my grasp? Perhaps scripts are better, they are easier, right? I don’t know… I’ve worked on too many stories for too long only to turn them away again and again. My instincts is all I can trust But what if my instincts are wrong? What can I put trust in then?
Perhaps I’m not listening well enough or not as often…
A creative mind is borderline insane, they say. We decided what’s true, where the border is. Maybe I’ll get it some day, but for the moment, I’ll stay glued to the screen with a warm cup of tea in my hands until I build enough courage to continue.
I just want it to be fun again
The Horrors of Writing 