To me, writing is therapy, but combat; it’s exercise, but rest; it is the calm, but also the storm. It’s everything.
The white wasteland. On this odd planet, the heat of it's sun does not break the atmosphere. The blue sky and sunny day is contrasted by cold, unlivable conditions.
A mother, wailing in hysterics. A father, bleeding from many cuts on his face, several times beaten already.
We LIVED on Sutton beach. There were days where I knew the coarse sand and cool water much better than I did my own home.
On a hot summer day, they dance through the concrete jungle. They glide to and fro' power lines.
This is a collection of writings from the past month. Though I may not post much on this blog, I still, on a daily basis, push myself to write. Below is a collection of some of my writings that serve as a reflection of who I was May 11, 2018 to June 3, 2018. Many of these pieces are unfinished. Many of these pieces are rough around the edges. All, however, are uncut and true. These were written as daily journal entries or writing warmups.
Here's to movies and those that make them.
Windshield wipers raced left and right as rain battered his old Honda Civic. It was a cold and rainy day as Pete drove from Georgia to New York.
Since 2010, the image has served as either my banner image or profile picture for the majority of my personal social media accounts. Through the years, I've found many images that I've loved that could have served the same purpose, but none, however, has had the same impact on me as the symbolic image of Arnold in a moment of understanding with an old turtle.
At nineteen, living away from family and friends in a state across the country, it has come to my attention that I have become lacking in the area of empathy.