“This is when the gloves come off!” She stated with a huff and puff.
Throwing down the protective shielding onto the ground, she was about to defy all beliefs of what would happen when exposing yourself to the elements.
It was that time of the year, when the cold season had taken over. There was no hiding from the white powdery substance covering most of the northern world. The only thing to do to survive was to put as much woven garments on top of the skin as possible. The degrees sinking down below zero in the tens, sometimes even hundreds, this season lasted for a length of six moons.
But those damn mittens! How they irritated her, especially today. They were always in the way. Grabbing things was not easy, not to mention holding a shovel.
She looked at the discarded gloves laying on the ground. Red against the whitest of snow. Pretty were they, she thought and kept staring at them, while her fingers were getting numb. Finally, as beckoning her, she scooped the offending mittens from the pile of snow, pulled them on and admired the colour and the feel of them.
Once again, she was happy in her gorgeous red mittens.
When stepping outside Much to surprise A freezing wind Is greeting your skin Rubbing your eyes Hoping, only lies But, waking to reality Accepting the actuality A cover of white May be a delight After the lush of green You have seen All summer long Trying to stay strong It’s here to stay Pushing away The slowly creeping Sinking feeling Don’t get bitter It’s only winter
“Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing” Benjamin Franklin
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t writing.
I did my first “screenplay” at the age of five with crayons and forced my whole family to watch the Christmas play I wrote, produced an ven acted in too! Later in my teens, I started writing fan fiction for my favourite shows on television, way before the internet, fan fiction as such and even personal computers were invented. I loved the weekly challenges for writing in school and of course, I was a book junkie too.
Writing for me has been sporadic at best and I mostly consider myself a closet writer. I am in the closet, out of the closet, back in and now finally out again, publishing on the internet as much and as often as humanly possible 😉
I am also a poet, and did not know it: True in many ways, as I write from anything and everything. My inspiration can be a phrase I heard on the lift ride or something from the morning radio. Mainly, these days, I get inspired from the pictures I take.
For me, personally, writing is an creative outlet for the mundane working day. If I do not write, I am be a very, very, very cranky person ;P
My motto is: A poem a day, keeps the mental doctor away! The second motto is: Write more, complain less!
Where did the time go? Somewhere, as it really wasn’t taking things slow! Alas, here we are, ten years later, mostly not a hater ;P Blog, blog, blogging away, like this is the place in which to stay!
Well, here’s to ten more! As guess, it’s not such a huge chore after all!!!
“And now, time for something completely different” Gun Roswell
Something different
Getting away, from my solitary comfort zone Feeling the tingling sensation, in each and every bone I wish I had eaten, that damned scone Because no I am hungrier, than a queen on her thrown
Something different for today, was on the agenda But, as hard a I tried, I could not seem to be able to bring back the referenda Trying hard is easy, they said But now I’m wishing, I really would get paid
Alas, working for free, is the curse of this writer wannabe Some might say, I am the ultimate dummy But, why would anyone one pay for what you can get for free Even if the charge was just a nominal fee
So, something new an spectacular this ain’t gonna be, I may be, some kind of scribbler, you see But tending into my old patterns to hold on Writing each passage till I am done
You say, I am boring and nothing is good or any fun It might as well be the Enterprise’s phasers on stun My advice then is; stop reading my stuff, don’t huff, rather write your own stuff Then I’ll be the one scolding, the things before me unfolding
“A writer’s life is never an easy one, the lonely and solemn state, lost in one’s own head every single day… but what if I like it there, inside of the made sphere?“ Gun Roswell
Writer, heal thyself
The made up words with the made up characters inside of the made up world inside of the mind of the writer
Going in deeper, never leaving the comfortable familiar place, the outside is there and outside it will remain
Living in one’s own head, night and day, never easy alas it is what this choice came with and what to except
The life of a writer, being everyone and everywhere all at once even if never really leaving the made up place up in the head
As there it is where they belong, the stories being told even if none of them are the writer’s own.
Rantings Of A Third Kind 