Friday, February 28, 2014
Google + Backdrop
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
March Round up! :)
Here is a play by play for weekly days & topics!
Monday: Motivate
In retrospect, I will be writing a article or two about getting the writers or readers inspired.
Tuesday: A Tale or two
Today is a day for storytelling. Either from you or one of my close acquaintances
Wednesday: Wisdom of the World
Wednesday is the day for writing wisdom & marketing enlightenment.
Thursday: Free Day
Give ME a Break. :)
Friday: For Everybody
Promote your dope! I feature a music video of an artist I admire, a poem or a short story from fellow colleagues.
Saturday: Sneak Peeks
Sneak Peeks of my new upcoming novels. The cover reveal or insert I allow to flow through my writer's hands.
Sunday: Let's Have Fun Today!
A recipe or crafts I love to share!
I <3 pinterest!
Follow http://www.pinterest.com/crazii09bjarns/
If you would like to post with me on the days I post new things about other creative artists in the world.
Thank you to all who view and enjoy the articles I post, I am very excited to contribute to your livelihoods!
Email me and we will have loads of fun collaborating! :) Hooray!
Friday, February 21, 2014
Inspiring Quotes for us Writers!
"Believe in yourself and in your own voice, because there will be
times in this business when you will be the only one who does. Take
heart from the knowledge that an author with a strong voice will
often have trouble at the start of his or her career because strong,
distinctive voices sometimes make editors nervous. But in the end,
only the strong survive."- Jayne Ann Krentz
"I've got a folder full of rejection slips that I keep. Know why? Because those same editors are now calling my agent hoping I'll write a book or novella for them. Things change. A rejection slip today might mean a frantic call to your agent in six months."
- MaryJanice Davidson
"If you've FINISHED writing a novel you are amongst the elite!!! You ARE NOT A FAILURE IF YOU CANNOT LIVE OFF YOUR BOOKS. You only fail by NOT TRYING."
- Nadia Cornier
"This is for writers yet to be published who think the uphill climb will never end. Keep believing. This is also for published writers grown jaded by the process. Remember how lucky you are."
- Terry Brooks
"You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you're working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success - but only if you persist."
- Isaac Asimov
"Dig until you hit rock. Then take out that jackhammer and go a little deeper."
- Allison Brennan
"The heights by great men reached and kept were not obtained by sudden flight. But they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night."
- Thomas S. Monson
"It's never too late to be what you might have been."
- George Eliot
“If you are hungry, you should eat. If there is a hunger
in your soul, you must dream.
in your soul, you must dream.
- unknown
http://www.writeattitude.net/quotes.php
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
I'm Only Living a Lie When I tell my soul I am fine, by S.M. Bjarnson
It wasn't clear to me about how far our livelihood had come.
We are travelers on a path nobody has a map too.
I listen to the yearnings that pull me to every unmentionable path.
I am alone.
Watching the waves hitting the bottom pits of the ocean.
They are encircled in time when there has been no time but now.
We are living in a breathless fought over universe only we are the only ones at battle.
With ourselves we are the only ones looking for victory when victory has already given into us, time and time again.
We are poor soldiers waiting to go home, awaiting a decision from the leaders we think execute their plans with us in mind and not from their own ambitious winnings.
We were right weren't we, leading a team of masked teenagers into a battle, no one had ideas of winning.
Our paths stained with generational bloodlines.
Our maps colored with veins.
The world was a line and there had been for curves created to save those who were not absolute in the eyes of our leaders.
Claims and taughting of voices made it clear we had no voice or reason to commute the exile pathway.
After everything is said and down we evidently find ourselves at the beginning again, with a clearer frame of mind, understanding what roads to neglect and others to partake in the journey of.
Rumors will be true if you let them live on.
The fictitious character we call time can be reset anytime.
I'm only living a lie when I tell my soul I am fine.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
What is calling to you...? -S.M. Bjarnson
Stars splashed against the night sky.
The watercolor wishes
brushed gently upon what we thought as our reality.
Terms and conditions of
where they would end up, that they not be lost forever, but maybe a farewell
for a short time.
We have reconciliation with those who have passed. T
hose in
line next to us who have the ok to go ahead and explore the unknown universe.
We are jealous, but why? We will get our chance when the timing is sincere.
When the envelope opens and our name is printed on it. We will be golden we
tell ourselves. Perfect for the job.
Adventurer in the soul and body, a
survivor in the min
Cherry tips and velvet
lips, we are all a part of the board game we play.
Wouldn’t you agree? If I was
but 3 and you art 5, then in time you would presume to be called first in our
line. I’m sorry to say only the young croak alone.
Secret whispers upon the
second.
My name is called and yet I am unready. I have practiced and played my
part a bystander if ever relevant and now here I am they are calling my name
and I will secure the line.
We are tormented by the time we have thought up.
We
are heartbroken in the moments we consider a life. Don’t forget the trembling
of toes, never let up on the quivering of the tip of your nose.
We are all consigned
one day to be more than a commoner.
Delved into our perspectives of life and
leisure, our entrance into adulthood was nothing other than a welcome mat, worn
from usage, tired from belonging.
Turns out not all heroes are born. Their
delivered. As if to say we can choose our path rather than our journey decides
for us. I am a child, a woman living amongst the adolescence of man. For all we
know we our destined road is that of unfortunate experiences.
What is calling you?
Monday, February 10, 2014
The Whispers in the Walls, by, S.M. Bjarnson
They heard my cries, but did they whisper to one another
about my pains, my belonged sorrows of fear. There I stood upon which I would
call shivering waves of tempting tides of love and hate; both exotic and fundamentally
underdeveloped to the extent they can become. Much is known about the things I
wish to share with you; here I am lying in a bed of memories.
The only ones I have of you.
I pull fragments of each second I got to spend with you, the
touches underneath each breath I was able to take around you. The one that
always seems to live on inside my darkest corner, the way you didn’t kiss me or
thrill the premonition I had always wished for, between me and you.
Bloody mirrors, paint the way of what honestly could have
been, definitely still could be. I fear, as many times before me in making a choice.
To taking that chance, here I will live with you, always in an infatuating
romance of love and desire.
Those are things you always wish for, times you go back to.
Recalling memories you always wish to step through and
become again. Relive the fantasy of living in such a moment of you and I. If I
cover my eyes will you become the person I have longed for and so desired? Will
we speak of unending times of running away to once lived romance, to somewhere
alive inside of us?
Blindness covers me and still you make me keel over in a
torture pain in my gut, I have to see you. The rush of what could be secretly
wants me to let it take over, devour every good intention I ever existed in.
But, it would never work. Things such as fantasy never seem too, so I’ll live
out my last desires with you, upon this wrinkled page of thoughts and somewhat begot
feelings; I once loved to reminisce in.
Now I am searching for a destiny, a reality that I don’t
have to keep putting in quarters in the slot machine to live over, again, and
again. You’d be there right alongside of each nightmare, holding my touch with
such fragrant fiction that you would kiss away any pain I had in me, I loved
you, then and there in the twilight of my dreams. You were always there in the
back of my pocket, waiting to become reacquainted with my imagination.
I will take you anywhere you want, my dreams are fading and
suddenly I want more out of you, the more I had not really ever gotten the
chance to be a part of. Looking back upon everything I had, everything I wanted
to have with you, with myself, I am sick with envy. Most of us, wishing to live
as we did, in the moment of times we can remember.
I wish for, I live everyday to be that way. Living in each
memory as if I will remember them all, because they are all that elastically
brilliant to you, to me.
Truly that is really the only place you have ever really,
breathed a free atmosphere, inside of my own free atmosphere, in the world of
imagination. Creative spurts of happiness overflow to your part of the haven I
have given up to you.
My time spent fantasizing about what could-be, I want to
touch basis with hormones, undiscovered.
In the end, we are just like that a faded memory made up
into a story created by a lust, or desire I am not being fulfilled by, an hour
of your time and here I stand oblivious to reality. Maybe, I never wanted it to
be true. Dreaming on an open dream.
Wish, a little?
-S.M. Bjarnson
I hope you all are enjoying the short stories I have been posting, please feel free to comment and talk amongst the fellow readers, we are all living a storyline.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
A piece at a time, -S.M. Bjarnson
My concentration broke and I was at the worst of
them. Breathing under strict rule of where and when I was to leave and bleed my
words and to whom. My glued eyes shut I reminisce in a once victorious land. I
stand alone at the battle field of the mercenaries. I am a king if not a queen
to the trap of solitude. I am the heir to a terrible crumbling kingdom. With
cruel intent I will seek them out to become more than just a maiden in a
chamber. There will be blood as there always is the red stain among the men in
history.
Wishful thinking tells us that we are longer good,
we are longer able. Who is the judge in the case? The ruler that signifies us
disruptive. For a short time we may live out the remaining years will a solemn
prayer of being an achievement of the human race, but you see that is the
mistake we are all in a race.
Hills and valleys will let us know if our succession
is relevant or rather a mistake of guidance on our elders part. We are children
being led away with a string or a rope, led to another world where our
imagination is held captive and our irrelevant lives became purposeful.
We stood through streams and creeks remembering our
fallen brothers. The cold chills turning over the aged rocks, exposing secrets
my lovely sisters kept. A dark hidden past was one thing and then another when
the light made it glow. Terminal, the position our beloved on us. Our potion
was a category for defeat and victory was not on the contents of victory.
Sacrifice on the other hand was a very big ingredient in the poison.
Fruit taken from the tempting tree were we all at
the devils hands, tug graves and cutting corners. There was music in the air.
Swirling the temptations of what had come and what had not. We would not last
the night, the morning dew taking the place of our final determination. Trembling
words fluctuated around the matters of factual and factious.
Could you remind me of my crime dear sir? Could you
so ever gallantly refresh my deprived memory of the crimes you accuse of me
committing?
There was a line I had drawn upon the fallen walls
of the kingdom we called home. White marks leading up and down and curve to
remind us we were never to be left alone in this day in this age, we were
prisoners. We were the answer to the most disgusting of questions.
The solutions for a match made in ever. Our
turbulence qualified for a ok landing, but there was nothing and we stood for
exactly that.
A piece at a time.
-S.M. Bjarnson
Friday, February 7, 2014
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Lazy as Goodbye
It was a
lazy Sunday, you were going away, again.
The
leaves were changing and you thought it would be a good time for leaving.
You call
me up, I said what’s going on?
You
said, I’m leaving.
Where
you going?
Why you leaving…me,
again?
I
thought I told you, you can’t do this anymore.
If you
wanted to be gone, you should have stayed away the first time.
You
should have stayed gone.
But, now
you’re back, and there isn't no changing that.
I know
you’re scared, because you've never been hurt before.
You
think leaving will save you from that heart ache.
But, I’m
still the one here, you’re only hurting me.
Just
give this a chance, a chance to be something more than a day in misery.
Now we
may fight, we may curse, but baby were strong enough to get through all that trouble.
Look at
me, feel this love.
Don’t be
scared of tomorrow’s problems.
Because,
today is today and tomorrow may never come.
Let’s
live today.
Please
just tell me one thing do you love me?
Do you
want to be here with me?
Where
you going?
Why you
leaving me, again?
I
thought I told you, you can’t do this again.
If you
wanted to be gone, you should have stayed away the first time.
You
should have stayed gone.
But, now
you’re back, and there isn't no changing that.
You look
at me, fear deep in your eyes.
My smile
comforts you and brings hope to them.
Don’t
worry, I say.
I won’t
be leaving anytime soon baby.
You say
me either.
I’m
staying for good, this time.
-S.M. Bjarnson
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Oracular Advocate
I shook you
awake; the familiarity of each other’s bodies had no come to the point of
romance, let alone attraction for one another. I barely finger your arm as you
awakes, estranged from the surroundings enclosing us in. The glare in your eyes
was one I had not seen. Don’t help her,
my gut said, step away from this lady
with careless independence; you are not worth the death threat. But as I
shifted my potential moving, you grabbed hold of me. As if to say, don’t tell
me how awful the world really is, I’m blinded by the fact you care, I've seen
this before. I know the ending. You moved and I pressured you again, “Get up or
you will die.” You blinked at my enforcing character, the leader I was never
obligated to become. A faint whisper escaped your lips, “I can’t.”
It was quiet
that day; bombs began to fall, uttering from the gray blue skies. One month
before the rest of the world had received the same notion to take advantage of
the United States namesake. The silence of most days blended in with each other
as if each moment was a wrecking ball of coincidental justice. A materialistic
covering had been invented, thus blending the sly explosives to their outside
environments, making it visible to the blind eye. They began dropping on our
homeland, beating the other realms cry, to claim our nation’s soul as something
other than free and respected. Knocking us off our feet, the government
insisted we go quietly, not making too much hullabaloo about this decision.
Where our freedom of speech had gone and our right to face our betrayers in a
line of accusers, vanished and we had no rights to defend. You could hear the
quaint whistling sound, seemingly to bring a small portion of peace to the
people in the aim of fire.
We were
standing on opposite sides of the train tracks. You stood upon them, staring
deep into me as if I was to be blamed for this catastrophe. I heard the train
coming; the earth shook beneath my working footprints. Trains captivated you,
how they rumbled down one main course of passageway. They were constant beings
in a world of mixed and matched harmonies of change. Fluctuated movements in a
millennium we could not begin to name. The shapes of the clouds ran along the
dirt road as we tried to guess which one belonged to whichever shape still
coexisted with our names. Their shadows weren’t dark, but the edges gave us
momentary relief from the hot desert heat. We had no idea what was at the end
of this long road. We came to the conclusion it was best not to acknowledge the
end of it. An event like this would
bring a family close together, a closing image of a group hug, would be long
awaited in this turmoil. The erosion of the exotic places had taken effect
precisely. The Grand Canyons stood upside down as a mountainous cavern; the
ending militia used it as a leveling ground, what they called the cleanup
project.
Generations of deceased corpses
lay down among the river’s edge. Tossed merely like an unheard Holocaust,
mashed between levels of unseen lovers and unheard democrats. Who I wondered,
would I be stacked against? Eventually, we would end up holding the hands of
our enemies, because in the end we were given the same sentencing, a lifeless
one. The only really thing we had left to hold onto was, a name we couldn’t
share.
The start of
all the destructive behavior came like a slap in the face to a young man's
curse words. We all saw it coming, but after the fact, we sat silently
wondering why it had happened, what we had done do wrong. Hurt, by the elders
before us, taking no consideration for the being of our wellness. The campaign
of our leaders led us to believe the fault was upon our rugged shoulders. That
somehow our words and opinions had created all the chaos that was brought to
the nation. As if the man in power had given up and shredded his unlimited
power on the refugees of sarcasm.
You were
there, her, a Goddess reborn into a new human form. You gazed down behind me,
as if to pick up the lifeless person beyond my trembling figure. I was
adjusting my perception to your outlook; I didn’t know who I was anymore. Then,
again did anybody else these final days, when they would catch a glimpse of
their faces overflowing with oil smudged tears. Filling up with not only
frustration and anger, but also regret and weakness began to spread like yawns
on Sunday evening. Did it even matter the explosion went off, maybe we were all
the same, tide pools of people no one seemed to warn or care enough to save. We
were the fold, after all what did we have to look forward to anymore or live
for; I stood in the closing stages of mankind’s pursuit, the concluding factor
of a brotherly tale betrayal and unremorseful circumstances.
By the end
of the bitter dry month, our nation's capital stood 3ft above the ground,
Pike's Fish market, sat among the dust blowing into the Pacific Ocean air.
Every major city had been intended, hit, and declared dissolved. We graveled
not in a place of mercy, a place of harmony, or a place abandoned of safety.
Instead, the nation’s people stood upward, moving forward, we were mere
survivors, unable to tell the story of destruction. No warnings of the
accidents were given. We had no challenge or progress to run and hide away from
the enemies that had become not foreign, but fellow. Rebels, chaos creators,
and free thinkers took care of the individuals whose ungodly actions, we seemed
to have been pushed and prodded in front of, as if the responsibility lay upon
the weakest link in a chain of mercenaries. Making them see the suffering, we
were all presented. Our punishment was not their pain; rather their misguided
mistakes had caused us our own introductory of humiliations.
You had a
light that glowed like the moon. Your soul seemed like a dark alley you
distracted yourself far from. Your name was nothing, but anything it wanted to
be; nonetheless I did not own it as a possession. Black hair filtered out of
your head, like straight DNA strips of obscure splendor; some unique viral
disease, yet to be determined by geneticists. Maybe, your name was just the
same, misunderstood and somehow peculiar. Rather a chaotic beauty, than a
classic one. With a face like Yours You really didn’t need a name for it. Your
soul created its own milieu, a world outside of its own. A world I wasn’t
familiar with flashed across your weary face.
Your aroma flummoxed me in such a way I couldn't tell if it was the
faint smell of fading roses or just the dying ones.
The world
was a different place now; feelings had been subdued into the idea of being
numb and nonexistent. Times played by the marks of the old dying moon. Tidal
waves were unrealistic to the daily tsunamis happening around the coastal
lands. We had safety, but no struggle for survival. For best protection, stay
in the mainland’s of the western states. The Nevada Desert was the option I had
randomly selected for me to benefit from. Once a dead land always seemed to
stay as such. Eventually, the last remaining would flee to the crowded borders,
coming back from once we all come from a differentiation of lands. Earthquakes
shake the glass windows and scatter their presence upon the empty terrace.
You stood
oblivious to the rumble of the c haos. Your very mind stood in the midst of the
dying world. You weren’t saddened by the fact the only home you ever knew was
falling before your, crumbling down to the ruins we all assumed were only in
the history of our father’s generations. You stood there in a wandering awe,
why Mother Nature was acting in such a temperamental way or why she had
neglected to protect her encompassed soul. The off balance of the axis rotated
its happiness around us as the sun beamed in its good morning charms of
sometime solitude.
Us, as a
community had no point in fighting. The army was disbanded, but given an
ultimatum and evidently chose to stay in plain sight. By the end of it all,
there was no point to strike again. The population diminished in a matter of
microseconds, and here I stood one of the last to survive. An engineer, by
trade, a man none the less of score, I was determined to live out of hotels and
never settle down to America’s ideal plan of living. But, by the end of every
world way, I sat perched on my tiptoes, wondering when Miss Miracle would come
walking down the alley to me, out of the blackness of my past, the soul. But,
she never came and suddenly I’m here striding beside you, wondering why I was
given a last chance at life with someone so delicate and uncontrollable, as
you. Well, of course that was before the oil spills and gas prices rose,
evidently we all ended up drowning in the blood of manmade machinery.
The world
had become debt collectors, come to demand the ransom we put on our own heads.
America was deemed to fall, the blame fell upon the heads of your once
idolized, and honorable comrades. Who had failed your message of freedom, once
again? Trust was placed in the hands of a greedy man who giddily made promises
and ran away with our joy. Our trust was built by some type of precious gold, a
material unrealistic in the account it could not buy happiness. Some type of
treasure auctioned off to the highest bidder, with the most persuasive
corruption and figurine of power.
Ashes would
suggest that someone once lived here, maybe, a house, a plant or two, a person
or few. Flowers lay side by side among no real platforms of the evidence that
once belonged here. Colossal, would have been the waste. Endless is the time
and energy needed to pick up and put back together an old society of comfort.
Days and weeks went by and in many cases the lost items of valuables was the
increasing ritual of mourning, as if their dirty tears could bring back the
things we had all lost. Our hope, most of all shared a bed with the wreckage of
homes and houses. All that seems to be left are flat grounds, shifting by the
shady leaves, as unwanted dirt particles danced under the tuck of the sunrise.
Your voice
trembled, like an attic door that had not been open in several years. You
looked at your reflection in the daunting waters as you tried producing a type
of language we would all understand one day, hope and love. You wondered if
something had changed, maybe you had grown significant over night. Maybe, you
finally mattered to this human being. You stared up at the sky and wondered if
life measured up or were you just playing a game like the rest of us, a role
someone else had casted. You had a dialect; I had yet been accustomed too. Not
so much one that was being reborn, rather one that has always been alive. A
foreign language not yet ready to be forgotten, but not ready to become
embraced, either. When you spoke the words and phrases came out of your
lingering mouth like a quiet rhythm of unnecessary flutter, tied together with
foreseen riddles I would one day appreciate.
Gaping
insignificant holes lingered around the departed bodies of our time. We are
alone, as everybody else had figured. Control had faded, rules itemized to the
notion of periodic failure. The further other countries began rising in power,
the less we knew what we stood for anymore. The only realistic reason to
survive was prominent for the countenance of foreign aliens, taken mercy upon
the left behind. I chuckle at my joke; people clipped coupons while their
family members began to die beneath them. Nobody laughed, giggled or chanted in
a while. They kept hope, talking as if the end was near, as if it we were all
still awaiting such an arrival. What they didn't seem to notice was this was
the end, the very end. No comebacks, the restart button broken, as we sat in
the midst of the ashes of our own injurious minds. What will come of the
replenished words, I have once spoken to you. Who may hear the speeches I
professed to you about who was to end up glorified by the ending times of war
and hunger. Who else knew, besides you? I shall die alone in the triumph of my
own waves of courage and regrets.
A man with
two small children came running up to us yelling, “OU LA VILLE!? OU LA VILLE?” Meaning where is the village at. “Calme-toi?” Putting hands up as if to
communicate using mass finger signals to tell him to calm down. The deranged
middle aged man, clearly noting his insanity stopped in his proverbial tracks.
The word I should have used was, Vider,
which meant empty. But, what I pronounced to him was la desperation, for it had merely disappeared upon the new dew.
You kept
stumbling and I kept walking on what could have been territorial borders of
some noteworthy destination, once upon a different time. I wonder what small
infraction must be puncturing your hip. So many times I've turned around almost
wishing to see you running down the road to me as if you were not extinct like
the rest of them. Them, who are unable to evolve into this greater species of
tomorrow or whatever, came after the dusk of dawn. Whoever thought I would be
one of the tag along to survive one of these mass explosions, and you’re with
your mute words as if you was dropped here by mistake to survive. I, believe they
were mistaken, when they pointed and picked he shall live, let that one go on
his own way. As a child, I was poked as a weakling, unwilling to defend against
those who cast the last pebbles.
We are the
very last, but then again we sit at the very tips of the fingering options of
the very beginnings. We were all that was left, saved for death or things
alike. At first all I saw was a wave of black and there I was flooded by a leak
of oil, in the middle of North Dakota; catching the empty breaths in the
misfortune of not only the Capital’s supply, but my own. An epidemic had broken
out and here we were pushed in the middle of it all left behind to fight an
invisible battle we all had no intentions of defending, let alone supporting.
We walked
and with great stride reaching the river front. The dawn of the day had struck
earlier this numeric year. The time wasn't evident, but we know not to keep
track. Endless days filled the streams between moments and seconds of time we
once knew or had once owned. People scanned down the aisle, like we had reached
the new land, Eden. The edgy volcanic ash fell through my rough fingertips like
the falling waters of a rain storm. The sky had become grey, the stream line of
new aged birds gave us little hope things were promised for change. A single small white flower popped up between
the rubbish, finally we all seemed to see the sky for what it really was; an
opening.
You
whispered in my ear, to speak ever so closely with me. But, all you placed in
the curvature of my ear lobe was a warm kiss. The brush of curiosity rushed
upon my cheek bone, a delicate touch so secretive that it had to have been by
mistaken, not considering the options of being physical with such an obscure
women in my defense. Although, your place here was not entirely hidden, your
behavior and motives showed you were stronger than the rest of us; after all
maybe you were here, the one to save us, even me.
-S.M. Bjarnson
Monday, February 3, 2014
Deepok Chopra Quote
The universe has no fixed agenda. Once you make any decision, it works around that decision. There is no right or wrong, only a series of possibilities that shift with each thought, feeling, and action that you experience.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Now Onto The Next Step, by, S.M. Bjarnson
I wrote this article a little while ago for a friend blog. I thought it was time to reshape and revamp motivation for the year!
There are many challenges in our
lives that we can easily walk away from. Trials that phase us either the right
or wrong way. There are plenty of times in a young artist's life when giving
into the odds is easier than spiting them.
Transforming from girl to woman, boy
to man, is a course both chaotic and indirect. Nonetheless finding yourself in
this oblivious world is a straight forward blur of uncertified facts mixed with
a mirage of fictitious morals.
Imagine yourself at the bottom
platform of a cascading staircase. Your glance is met with all the necessary
steps to acquire the high beacon.
Your focus not declaring or assuming
its presence. In life and in love, faith tells you, it exists. It speaks loudly
in your ear persuading your greatest efforts of this wonderful idea of success.
Eyes closed, deep breaths taken in. Picking up each foot to make the next
sacrificing stride. This staircase leads you up a winding beautiful mountain.
The scenery claiming no faults in any direction. Quiet peace surrounding your
persona. Welcoming in this attitude of gratitude; you are calm and powerful.
Hope lingers beside the knowledge of your daring being, ever so silently.
As you make your way further up
the curving pathway, not knowing what the next step may bring you; trust first,
then believe. Without question or much hesitation you begin to hear a faint
annoyance of a buzzing. Turning around, the landscape empty except of you.
Ignoring the humming whispers, you decide to press on. Suddenly, the small buzz
has turned into a crack in the stone, a trip in your step. Staggering your
progress and casting your view down. Faces appear at your shins grasping at
your weaknesses and applauding them in mockery. The doubts and fears you have
start challenging you, whispering to you false information. They tell you there
is no chance in paradise with you ever reaching the top of this hill. You're
never going to accomplish the task ahead. The last ones always cutting the
deepest; you are unworthy of being victorious. Draining the potential power
left to win this race. They have made a personal commitment to bringing you to
your knees in definite defeat.
You stumble trying to keep balance.
Scraping by another inch or so. You rise each foot again and again. Pledging
your name to that trophy. The new found strength in your legs makes the effort
easier. There's a break between the white clouds and your destination is in
pleasant view.
Throwing your hands up in the air.
Hallelujah on your tongue. You have made the long journey. On top you are
welcomed with applause and a celebration of your triumph.
In closing a final tune to keep in mind:
When you’re stuck in rut, and your
story won't fly.
Think
of the thoughts that make your heart jump and the setting catered your way.
What
words would be said and words be exchanged, how confident are you with the
world you have created?
Can
you think up a rhyme or a time of age?
A
character’s name or how it will end?
Just
remember when you’re down on your pen and your ink has run dry, tomorrow has a
better thought in mind for the end of your lines.
Best
wishes, and whimsical hope!
S.M.
Bjarnson
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)