If you look passed the trees you’ll see that you don’t. You can’t, because there are trees in the way.
Tag: Poem
Evidence – Poem
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.
They Hide
By the water they live
From the darkness they hide
From the endless forests,
To the misty mountains
With bottomless caves
And endless deeps
Autumn Night
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.
A writer’s doubt
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
Procrastinate
I’m sitting at a cafe reading one of my stories when a fly landed beside me. There was nothing particularly special about this fly, maybe it was a bit more colourful than I was used to, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It acted like a typical fly, cleaning itself with its front legs rigorously while staring at the window trying to figure out why it can’t fly through it. It must have found a solution, or maybe it got inpatient because it dashed right into the window and landed back on the table again, next to my computer.
It started cleaning itself again, the wings this time. It doesn’t look unclean and I wonder if he really needs to groom itself all the time or if it is just an instinct whenever it is idle. Why do they clean themselves with their feet, it’s the dirtiest part of their body, surely? But then again, I don’t know anything about flies. It made another dash at the window, unsuccessfully and landed this time on my shoulder. It started cleaning itself again, furiously.
I did not swat the fly. Instead I let it be as I walked out from the cafe and waited until it realised it was free and I wondered if I should go back to reading again.
Talk to me on Twitter if you want – most of my short, brain-stormy, ideas happen over there.
Characters Rebel
I’m a very, in the now, kind of guy.
I hate to think about the plot, on what has happened and what will happen.
I much rather let the story take me on a ride.
The characters do what they want anyway.
They have no obligation to follow your command.
If you try to force them, they’ll just rebel and ruin the story.
You never know your characters until the end
There’s no point trying.
Ignition of Change – Poem
A story is nothing but the preparation of change.
How to reach this point sets the road ahead.
The writer must find this road and not steer from it.
We don’t know the characters in our minds but in our hearts.
At the end of the road they’ll be known in our minds too.
It is then when the writer shines.
© Christopher Stamfors
A Murderer – Poem
The world is not kind to murderers,
is what they want you to think.
In truth, it’s an asset!
They know what you are.
They know you are of use.
© Christopher Stamfors
Cloud of Doubt – Poem
What we want and what we need
are two different things
Things with purpose,
Oftan striving towards a goal,
Things that help us reach said goal
With purpose we make.
But with purpose comes needs,
Things that are more important than others
More difficult.
We tend to avoid them
Waste the day away at things that are numbing,
Without purpose
unimportant.
Do we need it?
Do we want it?
Questions asked in futility
For we already know them,
Yet we avoid them.
Our true purpose hidden
In a cloud of doubt
© Christopher Stamfors
The Horrors of Writing 