Anticipation

So what if it's really obvious? In fact that's a great way to forget how special something is: See it around you all the time and eventually you don't see it anymore.

Did you know, that if you put a seed in the ground, it will grow into a plant?

Of course you do. But when last did you ever do that? For me, it was back in primary school for a biology project.

Recently I planted some chilli seeds. Today the little green leaves came up out of the ground. Isn't that amazing though? I mean... when I started on my goal to grow these plants it was like "I'm just gonna produce me some chillies..." But then after waiting for about a week, when the little leaves popped out the ground it was like "Holy crap! MY BABIES!"

It got me thinking though... its kinda like when you order something from amazon: you know its coming... you don't know when.... but you know its going to take a while. Then when it arrives it is really exiting and even though you didn't order anything particularly amazing it is now your prized possession.

Finger Painting The world

Its kinda like finger painting you know: You take a powerful emotion, place it on the paper in front of you, and poke it with your pencil. If it takes a little while to get going that's ok. Just don't give up on it yet.

Sometimes it will spill out a colour, sometimes a smell, sometimes a sound. Perhaps it will breath out memories of another time. Sometimes it produces rhythm, sometimes it produces rhyme. It can trickle down with imagery as thick and ripe as honey. It might even expel an absolutely extra-ordinarily amazing hyperbole.

Once you have coated your page with its inspiration, take your pencil and paint some words onto the paper underneath. When you feel that that it is done, It begins to bubble and froth. Until it rises as a cloud of condensation into the upper atmosphere leaving your creation behind. The cloud cools down again, and in the right conditions when it rains, the collective inspiration of the world produces a rainbow on the horizon. Inspiration pours down again on all those who see it and the cycle begins again.

Some people use paper and pencil. Some people use a shovel and dirt. Some people use a hammer and wrench. Some people use numbers and math... And sometimes... sometimes we all look up to see the beauty of the world around us what and at what others have created. Inspirations and ideas to produce great things are all around us.


What can you create? Can you create a better future? Maybe you already are.

Maybe she will read this

Maybe she will read this. And maybe she wont.

Perhaps if she does, her smile will light up the sky like the moon. Maybe she is reading it now, her glistening hair pouring lightly across her shoulders with the northern lights in her eyes. Perhaps she will laugh and the stars will shine brighter.

Just maybe.

Keeper of the Universe

Dear diary, (223rd entry January 6th 2009)

I'm having trouble remembering when it started now. It was almost like a dream. As if I was leaning too far over the edge of reality. I felt that sickening lurch in my stomach as I lost balance and fell over the edge. It happened slowly. Like a car coming to a slow stop at the lights, that final jerk as the brakes catch tight.

I was with Curt and Linda walking home from the mall. She was explaining to him the finer points of what she was calling "manners" in a loud sarcastic voice. Curt's frown looked one part ashamed and two parts defensive. He would never give up without an argument though. He was very stubborn about his xbox habits.

I remember felt a bit left out of the conversation so I walked a short way in front. Curt had begun his well rehearsed explanation about how his 'xbox time' was a time when he was not to be disturbed.

I didn't notice the silence, but the sound faded so gradually. When I got to the end of the path I hesitated. There was complete silence. The no sound of cars in the distance, no flutter of the wind in my ears, no gentle sway of the trees... I turned and saw Curt and Linda way behind... frozen, as if caught in a photograph.

Time stopped. I don't understand why I didn't stop too. It felt like leaving behind your shadow. Like Peter Pan. Leaving the world behind like Peter Pan's shadow.

Ironic, is it not? That I should be caught in a single moment growing ever older, While Peter Pan is without aging. Both having left our shadows behind.

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Dear diary, (224th entry January 6th 2009)

It has been some time since my last entry.......
...
...

Boots. Sword. Cat.

Pictures speak a thousand words, but three words can speak a thousand pictures.

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It was clear that the structure of her story was beginning to form. He sat beside her and watched the satisfied smile dancing on her face. It was a fantastically sunny day. Such was the gentle warmth of the breeze that he felt poetic enough to think of it as a 'majestic' day. At this time of the morning, the sun was yet to breathe warmth into the smooth cobblestone stair on which they sat. The smell of bread was still fresh as it drifted lazily across the road from the bakery.

Like an artist with a paintbrush, she preferred to write with a pen rather than type with a keyboard. The sharp rolling sound of her ball point was punctuated by short pauses; he had come to think of them as her creativity changing gear to maneuver the curves in her plot. She was a master of the art and he enjoyed watching her sometimes.

She would spin remarkable fantasies from ink and paper with the casual ease with which you might tie your shoelace. The paper overflowed and drooped at the edges as the weight of the unfolding tale flowed like syrup onto its surface. Mystery would bubble, tragedy would swirl, romance would ripple and disaster would splash over the edge of the paper.

All the publishers would beg and plead and bargain with her to have the privilege of delivering her book to the world. Thousands of readers would line up to collect her latest book and read it from beginning to end without pause. Sometimes they would smile, other times a tear would run down their cheeks and sometimes they would gasp out loud. She received bags of fan mail every time she released a book... and occasionally she would reply to one or two. But her idea for her next book would spawn in the midst of her last and she spent all of her time writing.

...

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Laxative. Elephant. Zookeeper.