#writingfreely

[thingsnobodywillread]

"Tell me what goodbye means," I whisper. Trying not to make eye contact. Wishing this was all a dream. Wishing that I had a wicked imagination and that you were not walking away from me But here I am - lost in a nightmare, in a maze of ignorance. I was using my hands as a guide but attracted monsters around every corner [sometimes those monsters were you] [sometimes they were me] I had lost a sense of direction but then wondered why it was anchored to someone else in the first place When did I give this up and made the decision to be less than. I was a flame burning and a wave crashing. I was a damn snowflake [but I was lost in an avalanche] and I was destroying everything in my path and I didn't care because this was what I was born to do [apparently] And who am I to question anything [I should question everything] but everything changes and I didn't change with it which was the worst thing to do [but this was the worst thing you could do]

L.W | I am a damn snowflake | free writing | 3 October 2018

[thingsnobodywillread]

I get caught up in the space between make believe and reality. I dream to the point of no return. I conjure up conversations with you. I am a magician and you are the magic. I create your essence and imagine you to life. It's a blurred line - what is and what isn't and what I want it to be. Because it never is. Not yet, anyhow. I am the creator of my own fantasy and you are the star. The stars that shine, that light the way, that I use for navigation. And gravity always brings me back to you. A forcefield of what can be. Conversations outside of Brian Lara Rum Eatery. Whispers over breakfast at the Whippet. Promises over wine and music playing too loud and not loud enough. You are an image but you are also real. You are just not my reality - not yet. You have a million names but one day I will call you by one. But for now, I'm here, and I'm waiting.  And I'm making up conversations so that I know what to say when I meet you for real.

L.W | I am a magician and you are the magic | free writing | 9 August 2018

[thingsnobodywillread]

I wanted you so badly but you could be anyone. I was kissing strangers in bars for a drink, for a touch, for a little bit of attention. I craved attention and I craved you. The unknown. A promise not yet fulfilled. My hands were broken from holding on for so long. I was locked in a room. Lost in the dark but in familiar territory. I'm so tired now. Tired of flying, of jumping through windows and doors and at every opportunity that could lead me to you. And I craved a touch. Your touch. My name on your lips and my hand through your hair. I wish for a life that is mine. A life where I'm wanted, a life where I am first. And I pray for patience. For confidence in what life has in store for me. For excitement that, for now, I am free to do what I wanted. To not be selfish with my time. I am twisted, lost in the woods of my childhood. I am wrapped up in my past. I am a gift you can't return. I am happiness and sadness. I am adventure and I am timid. I am all I ever wanted  to be. I am nothing. No. I am a work in progress. I am progress.

L.W | I am patience | free writing | 15 July 2018

[thingsnobodywillread]

It was my last shift. Midnight to 6am. The graveyard shift. More like the graveyard of hopes and dreams. The only good thing was that I could play my own music as loud as I wanted. Hardly anyone came into the cafe, apart from the rush at around 4am, when all the clubs in town closed and drunk students needed a snack before passing out. But, tonight. Tonight you entered the cafe. I pretended not to notice you as you wandered through the aisles. I fretted over my song choice at that moment, hoping to impress you. And I think I did because I could see you mouthing the words to the song playing over the speakers.  The Avett Brothers. Head Full of Doubt. I had a head full of doubt, because how could I be so intrigued with someone I've never even spoken to? But I was. You had dark hair, a bit curly. Longer than it should be, but it suited you. You were wearing skinny jeans and a band shirt. [Not the Avett brothers - life isn't that serendipitous.] "Have you ever been white water rafting," you asked me. A weird opening line, but I'll take it. I proceeded to tell you about the time I spent five days on the Orange river, how my friend broke my glasses on the first night so I couldn't see anything, about how I felt like the beauty of the universe was caught in the space between Namibia and South Africa and the night sky. And you hung on every word. [The beauty of the universe is caught in you.] [You could have said that.] [But I'm glad you didn't it's too damn cheesy.] You left, then, after the most random opening line.  "I'll see you around," you said as you stepped into the night and out of my immediate now and made room for a gaggle of girls screeching about what happened in Memphis Rock earlier that night and about how the bartender was definitely flirting with one of them. And then it was rugby players who celebrated a win [or a loss]. [Is there a difference?] And I got lost in the chaos in the urgency of the now. And it quieted down again and I could think again. [I could think of you.] About how you seemed like a mystery, a thinker, a dreamer. [And you liked the Avett brothers.] You came back into the cafe right about then, ten minutes before closing.  "I forgot to buy something," you said and grabbed a packet of Stimorol and placed it on the counter.  Really? You came all this way for a pack of gum?  [I didn't know how far you came.] But I rang it up and you paid for it and you asked me about the music playing.  [It was Bon Iver.] And I started gushing about being able to make my own playlists. [It was the best part of the job.] And then you smiled. [Oh, that smile.] [Why is having the same taste in music suddenly so important to me?] And we talked. You helped me lock up and walked me to my car and asked for my number. [And my name, finally!] It only took me four years and countless shifts to meet you. And it was so worth it.  I was driving home and the sun was breaching the horizon and I was smiling and turning the radio up. And then I got a text message from you, asking if I wanted to go for breakfast. And I've never felt so alive. Or so awake.

L.W | the beauty of the universe | free writing | 7 July 2018

[thingsnobodywillread]

Loneliness approaches like a tidal wave. Like the calm before the storm. I can sense it before I feel it. And I feel it before I can name it. I'm caught up in the middle. In the eye of the storm. I am centered while being surrounded by havoc. By the remnants of failed attempts and by the chaos I create sometimes.  I've got a wild heart and a thirst for adventure, baby, but I can't open myself to the promises of this world. I can't bring myself to accept my own potential. I am a burning star in daylight. I am a pearl at the bottom of the ocean. I am a rainy day in Mozambique.  I am too late, or too early. I am more than this. More than this wave of pure motion I can't fight against. Rage, rage, I whisper softly. Only I hear the cries, the promise. The command of life. The call of the unknown. Comfort is the death of dreams. My aspirations are in pieces sometimes. Sometimes I am on top of the world. I've got a mountain at my feet. A mountain I have climbed. But I look up and all I see is another summit.

L.W | I am a burning star in daylight | free writing | 14 July 2018

[thingsnobodywillread]

My mind always drifts back to you. It's like you are the anchor. The origin. Or I'm just obsessed. Maybe I'm thinking way too much. Imagining things. Hoping for things. Wishing that I could meet you, soon, in a random bar with stuffed monkeys in the corner ["Because our name is NO EVIL", said the bartender]. Then we could go to some speakeasy type hole and drink gin-on-tap [because that's a thing now]. And we could talk about the normal stuff, sure. But, oh, there's so much more. Like - your favourite place in the world, when do you feel most alive [maybe someday I could say that I feel most alive with you]. We can yell at each other from across the table because Muse would be blasting from the speakers [I haven't heard this in so long]. And we'll have so much fun and you will know a piece of me that no one else does. But, the truth is, this is all just in my head. I sit alone, I do things I want when I want and it's great it's so much fun it's so free. But, still, my mind drifts back to you. Because I'm a born storyteller so I tell myself stories [it's what I do best] and I keep writing you into my stories because without even trying it seems, you've become a main character that I have yet to meet.

L.W | I’m a born storyteller | free writing | 3 February 2018

[thingsnobodywillread]

I have an addictive personality. Which means I obsess - over everything. I can get lost in a daydream and somehow convince myself that it's my reality. I can stare into space for so long that time loses it's meaning. Every month I start a new hobby. I've got this collection of watercolour paints and papers scattered on the floor of my bedroom filled with ideas that somehow spilled out and over into reality. Half-formed ideas, mind you, because being obsessive doesn't make you good. Instead - my head now had empty nooks and crannies that were patiently waiting for more and more and more. It's a never ending story, really.

— L.W | writing freely | 25 January 2018

[thingsnobodywillread]

I heard this song that goes something along the lines of "you're gonna rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark." [Alright, I've been listening to Lorde's album on repeat.] And I felt I could have written this song. I could have made up a million versions of a love interest. Making myself the girl with a messed up family, and you being the only one who understands me. I could create different versions of you. Changing you, mould you. Imagine you to life. Of course, you'll only be alive in my mind. Because I'm a writer, but no one reads my words. No one knows my thoughts. But in my mind, I've got you. I know you. I breathe life into you. My life bleeds from my fingers as I hunch over my keyboard. Just one more. One more witty remark. One more gesture. Just one more. And then maybe one day I'll see you [for real this time] in my favourite coffeeshop, reading some obscure and pretentious book and we'll get to talking about what's good on the menu, or that band that's playing at the Good Luck Bar, and we make plans to go together. And then we do [but in a group because I need a buffer I need something to fill any silence] and then we realise we like the same music and I realise that this is life.

L.W | my life bleeds from my fingers | free writing | 1 February 2018