prose

I feel like there’s a point…

I am currently decluttering my RedBubble Portfolio, to make way for more recent art that best represents who I am now, as well as to make it easier for customers to navigate the available products for sale. As a result I will be sharing some of my old creative writings here on WordPress, as a way of preserving them. In several cases my mind, opinions, beliefs, values and overall understanding of life have changed since the time I wrote these pieces, but I still feel that they are personally valuable reminders of the various stages of my life journey thus far.

This piece of writing was first posted at my RedBubble Creative Writing Portfolio.

Date of original post: 4 October 2010

Total views, at 2 May 2016: 288

Musings: I feel like there’s a point to my life

Monday 4 October 2010

The heady pursuit of something new: it drains and weakens me. I become ineffectual and tired
and more alive than ever before.
When was the last time that the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders?
I cannot recall. I only know that I must have been bent low beneath the burden.

Now I am tired, but it is a good tired. The sense that life is interesting again.
The sun shines for me once more.

I run, I leap, I feel the wind in my hair, I feel the sun and the brightness, and I feel joy.
Joy, a long-lost and much missed friend.

Enter into the moment,
feel the awakened desire.
Feel it coil around my mind and lift me to new thoughts.
Fight its power as it consumes me.
Tension. Struggle. True life.
Awake. Alert. Finding new reasons to be present here.
Right now.

 

Late on a rainy Friday night

Originally published at my RedBubble portfolio, 2009.

15 May 2009 11:11 PM

I’m sure it’d be easier to write if circumstances were nicer. If the sounds coming in my window were merely the rain, wind and rustling of trees. Instead, these are drowned out by the roaring vehicles as some fools drag race on the slippery main road. The nearby tollway hums with continual traffic. Someone repeatedly drives a motorbike past our house, probably lapping the neighbourhood.

Once in a while the wind picks up again, cold, wet and strong. It batters the flimsy windows on the side of the house, and make the tree branches squeak against the fence. It whistles in through the window. When I hear the wind, it’s like opening a floodgate of memories. Treasured memories. Of a quieter, more raw, more alive place. Where the weather is somehow more tangible, more real.

So, I’m sitting here, late on a Friday night, wishing I could write something good. Something poetic. Something that would stir up life and excitement and mystery. Something that’ll make me feel good about being alive, and being awake two hours after bedtime.

I feed off my surroundings. The image in my mind – of a moonlit, wind lashed, wild lonely hillside, with an old house perched on a hillside and no signs of human life for miles around except the soft and friendly yellow light shining from the kitchen window – seems to be lost in the suburban noise. Is it possible that I might only be able to write what I really feel when I’m in the places I love? Or is it just another excuse?

NaPoWriMo 2016: Day 5

I’ve heard it told that in the old stone circles and since the dawn of consciousness

the crouching and lurching beasts left the bones of their enemies.

Their blood cries out from the soil.

And in that place ancient otherworldly highways intersect.

Hidden from mortal eyes they mark the endless trails of wandering spirits.

There are too many of them now.

They crowd and they jostle for position –

they wait for their chance to be set free.

NaPoWriMo 2016: Day 4

I’ve heard it told that in

The Old Country –

where the air is thick with the restless souls of the unjustly departed –

flowing through the veins of the people,

the blood of our ancestors passed down,

is the second sight and the seer gift.

The druid wields the sickle and stands, arms wide,

welcoming the waking sun.

NaPoWriMo 2016: Day 3

Ye’d be best off taking a different path.
The old woman in the kitchen liked to stand with hands on hips,
it made her feel strong and mighty; gave her the right to scold the young men as though they were
the sons she never had.
He felt small next to her, though they were the same height, but
there was something in the way the women looked at him:
A veiled fear, perhaps, hidden under their bonnets and how they all looked exactly alike
their uniform long skirts and high-shouldered blouses – no corsets, though – too impractical for these wild lands.
Stay off Brumby’s Track, ye hear?
Something terrible happened there, once.
Sideways glances and anxious silence. Guilt, perhaps?
Guilty consciences because they talked among themselves,
But what did he have to do with it? The sins of his fathers
As if he could’ve come in a pre-incarnate form
To warn old uncle Tommy that there are stains that can be washed off stone
but not washed off a heart.
He knows that they know.
He can’t tell the boss not to take the most direct route.
He’ll just close his eyes when they come to where it happened.