I’m not walking down this road for you.
I’m just heading to the gym actually.
I know my leggings are tight,
But that doesn’t mean I want you in them.
The world can be a scary place, the mind can be scarier.
“Shhh. Come on, follow me”. Nyx motions for Sarah to follow her out of her bedroom window. Once outside the wind tugs at their nightgowns as they make their way down the path. Their bare feet imprint the soft green grass as their feet gently kiss the paddock.
“How much further?” Sarah asks. She looks about her but sees nothing in the darkness.
“Not far. It’ll be fun. Just like in the movie.”
Sometimes she shies away
So consumed by self-doubt
She walks with stooped shoulders
She talks in sighs and whispers
Silence overcomes when people see
See her beauty, they are drawn in
I’ve been told many times that I was his favourite. I don’t know what it was I did to deserve such a title. I can’t help but wonder if I still do it, this thing that made me so special. If he could see me now would I still be his favourite? Am I the person he thought I was? People say dad was always his favourite too. I can understand that though, they were so alike.
So I stole the title “Why I write” off Joan Didion who admits to stealing it off George Orwell, but my reasons are not the same as the reasons she starts out with. Joan liked the way it sounded, liked what it implied, for myself I liked the idea of trying to articulate the compulsion that comes over me daily. The idea that Joan expresses through simile and metaphor implying the writer is a bully seems to be the opposite of my own intentions, for I do not intend to inflict the reader with opinions which are written to encourage a certain mindset but merely use writing as a selfish form of release. I can rid myself of ideas, feelings and thoughts that I no longer wish to hold on to, by putting pen to paper, by tapping on some keys.