Silence is more than the absence of sound; it’s the immersion of oneself into his surroundings. Silence means feeling the beat of the hearts of the invisible, the flutter of wings and leaves, the swirl of air and the breath of the breeze. It’s the meditation of solitude and peace that need not strike fear into those with paranoid, restless hearts.
A silent man or woman, though perhaps assumed to be deaf and dumb, are often neither, but instead merely more thoughtful than most. To a silent man, speech need only become necessary when he has polished every thought, idea, or remembrance into a simple-to-understand yet valued piece of
He swam.
On the horizon there was
nothing but sparkling blue.
Below the darkness deepened,
and deepened,
and deepened,
until below was nothing.
But he kept swimming,
To the star at the end, perhaps,
where the sky kissed the sea.
His eyes, like the water,
were filled with nothing,
nothing
but icey coolness.
Squalid, unphased,
and automatic,
he swam.
He swam,
far, far from the edge of the cliff
and swam some more.
He swam.
And swam.
Blankly,
he swam.
Until,
as the abyss was nothing,
as his eyes felt nothing,
he became nothing.
And he faded down into it;
he faded into the nothing.
When our feet touch the ground,
they cannot hear a sound.
But a rumble they may feel,
and escape they can steal.
To the brain they are slaves,
but to the heart they do listen,
And our feet will take us
to the ones we are missing.
For savior, for sorrow,
to having no tomorrow;
For love, for freedom,
to rebuilding a kingdom;
There be not a distance
nor mountain or stream
that our feet have not the power
to make reality out of dream.
Into the Flames-Ch 1 Sample by monsterzrscary, literature
Literature
Into the Flames-Ch 1 Sample
I don’t remember what things were like Before. I can’t. Even the eldest people I’ve seen meandering in the streets were only infants Before. I’ve heard stories though. My mother used to tuck me in every night, with a candle flickering by my bed, and fill my malleable little head with fairy tales of days when people didn’t have to run. She told me that once, a long time ago, people could look each other in the eye; that they could shake hands and walk away with nothing in their pockets but what they had prior to, because Before people didn’t have to take.
And I used to believe her. It was the books.
Silence is more than the absence of sound; it’s the immersion of oneself into his surroundings. Silence means feeling the beat of the hearts of the invisible, the flutter of wings and leaves, the swirl of air and the breath of the breeze. It’s the meditation of solitude and peace that need not strike fear into those with paranoid, restless hearts.
A silent man or woman, though perhaps assumed to be deaf and dumb, are often neither, but instead merely more thoughtful than most. To a silent man, speech need only become necessary when he has polished every thought, idea, or remembrance into a simple-to-understand yet valued piece of
He swam.
On the horizon there was
nothing but sparkling blue.
Below the darkness deepened,
and deepened,
and deepened,
until below was nothing.
But he kept swimming,
To the star at the end, perhaps,
where the sky kissed the sea.
His eyes, like the water,
were filled with nothing,
nothing
but icey coolness.
Squalid, unphased,
and automatic,
he swam.
He swam,
far, far from the edge of the cliff
and swam some more.
He swam.
And swam.
Blankly,
he swam.
Until,
as the abyss was nothing,
as his eyes felt nothing,
he became nothing.
And he faded down into it;
he faded into the nothing.
When our feet touch the ground,
they cannot hear a sound.
But a rumble they may feel,
and escape they can steal.
To the brain they are slaves,
but to the heart they do listen,
And our feet will take us
to the ones we are missing.
For savior, for sorrow,
to having no tomorrow;
For love, for freedom,
to rebuilding a kingdom;
There be not a distance
nor mountain or stream
that our feet have not the power
to make reality out of dream.
Her aorta ensnared
by vines, her capillaries
shrivelling, as flowers
drink up life-energy. Her
nervous system a cave full
of shipwrecks, and her bones
crumbling, like the walls
of a once ancient tomb.
She has to wonder,
What's left
for me
to destroy?
Into the Flames-Ch 1 Sample by monsterzrscary, literature
Literature
Into the Flames-Ch 1 Sample
I don’t remember what things were like Before. I can’t. Even the eldest people I’ve seen meandering in the streets were only infants Before. I’ve heard stories though. My mother used to tuck me in every night, with a candle flickering by my bed, and fill my malleable little head with fairy tales of days when people didn’t have to run. She told me that once, a long time ago, people could look each other in the eye; that they could shake hands and walk away with nothing in their pockets but what they had prior to, because Before people didn’t have to take.
And I used to believe her. It was the books.
My Bucket List So Far -Go to Paris -See Chicago on broadway -Paint a mural -Fall head over heels in love DONE -Publish a piece of literature -Get over my fear of deep water -Stay as far away from deep water as humanly possible -Save a life -Climb a mountain -Have a family -Tell someone what for about their ignorance and change their life
Ps Don't let other people's opinions hold you back.
Favourite Visual Artist
Alphonse Mucha/Georgia O'Keeffe
Favourite Movies
Pride and Prejudice, Bambi
Favourite TV Shows
SYTYCD, New Girl, Adventure Time
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Band of Horses, Paper Route, Daughter, Mumford & Sons
So I didn't get it. The Governor's school spot I mean. But that's ok. Still, I feel like I'm at a point in my life where everything around me seems to be moving so fast. My childhood friends are growing up, I'm too busy to art anymore, heck, I'm going to be a senior next year and I don't even think I'm ready. I'm ready, but I'm not READY. Mentally. Recently things haven't been going in my direction, and I know that's life, but I get tired sometimes. Who doesn't? The only problem is I'm missing the one person who I can talk to about this stuff, so I'm substituting him with this computer screen.
Also I've been listening to "The Winner Is" from
So I applied this year to attend Governor's School of NC, which is a 5 week intensive summer school paid for by the attendee's school, and I made it state-level. Now I have to go to Meredith College on Feb. 9 and I'm both super psyched and super stressed. So far I have two works in progress, which includes winter-work in progress, and tulips (see my gallery). I can only bring a portfolio of three pieces and I'm kind of freaking out because I keep thinking about how many better artists there are out there that probably applied and I don't know if I'll be good enough and *gasp*. I guess what I'm looking for is reassurance, but I should probably
I've recently begun impulse writing. I keep a notebook by my side and if I think of a couple words that fit together, I write them down and keep on going. Usually I have to read, edit, reread, edit, but it doesn't take too much time. Some how I feel like I have a lot less stress, and my creativity is coming much easier to me. So for any one who's skeptical about the benefits of writing, I'd try it, cause it definitely helps. Happy writing!