Written Whispers

For today’s prompt I picked “Opposites” or “Paradoxes” depending on preference. For something I like to babble and theorize about quite a bit I had an amazingly hard time with this prompt but I’m going to assume it’s mostly because Crystal and I stopped doing them for awhile as we were both consumed with stuff during April.

Oh and by the way, Jo has recently joined our little prompt writing circle. *dances around happily* I’ll update this post as soon as they get their’s up so you can read and enjoy theirs as well.

[Edit: You can now find Crystalina's response here.]
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This way and that.
Here and then there.
Right or wrong or left or right or upside down!
Turn and turn and turn again.
Walk one way and another and another and another until you’ve no place left to turn.
Of everything and nothing.
The paradox of incomplete completion.
A perfect imperfection.
Equal and not so.
Feeling and numb
Reaching and falling.
Failing and flying.
Singing and seeing and loving and being!
Walking and running.
Turning and burning.
One thing of all things and all things of no thing.
Opposite and opposite and same.
One, none, all.

For the prompt: Eyes. :)

Here I sit- inside my head.

I also just, dance, sing, speak, and philosophize, but mostly I just sit and look out these windows of mine, the windows to my soul. They are so like a two way mirror as I can out yet no one sees in.

I’m stuck in here- sometimes regrettably.

There are things this sitting version of me would like to say that my physical mouth often tries to hold back. My brain functions as an organ. It does what it does with little prompting on my part but instead by the will of neurons, the paths they take and the ways they censor my actions often formed by society.

My mind on the other hand is not an organ but a concept, the shadow of my soul that seeps through into my being and as such it’s free from all that civilized nonsense. I control it. I choose what I accept and what I don’t, what I believe and what I desire.

Though my mouth may censor things at the command of my brain, my mind censors nothing and my soul, that which my mind shapes over the course of many lifetimes, takes on the brunt force of all possible thoughts.

Sometimes I feel trapped behind these eyes of mine. There are things I see and hear, beliefs and theories I develop that I have no way of explaining and even if I did they may only have context deep within the confines of my skull.

Here I sit- looking out at the world. Sometimes I cry out, hoping someone will see me behind these eyes of mine but more often than not I am merely the hazel observer. The bit of light that glints in the mirror or compels people to trust me, telling them that there is something in there abet hidden carefully under layers of flesh.

Perhaps this is my soul- this conscious piece of my mind that observes everything.

Perhaps it is my imagination- or a figment thereof.

The world behind my eyes is vast. Filled with words, images, stories, knowledge, memories, and experiences- all of which I hold dear. Here I sit with them all swirling to and fro around me like the roughest of tides. like the roughest of tides.

Here I sit watching and waiting. Uncensored and evolving.

Here I sit behind my hazel windows.

Here I shall always sit.

Can you see me?

Here is the second prompt between Crystal and I. This one is by her: Age. You can find her response to the same one here. :) Not my best work but then again it’s my fault because I kept watching the box with people inside that steals souls. ;)
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Age. The process of decaying over time as many see it. The road to death and the end of all things. This is the way many see it, why else would women allow needless to be stuck in their faces full of botox (sp?) and other such chemicals? Why else would Ponce deLeon have gone searching through hell and high water to find that rumored fountain of youth? Why else would we see the grim reaper as a dark skeletal figure?

I do not.

Age. The process of growing and maturing. The universes way of showing we have ‘been’ and walked down many paths, some more than others, some learning from said paths more than others as well. We have started out as young babies, no, not ever that. We started out as cells, dividing and multiplying, ageing in that sense till we became babies and slowly afterward children and adults.

Death is not the evilness in dark cloaks come to take our souls away but rather a beneficent being come to give us rest after all our trials and tribulations. Some say he comes before our time and that may be so in one sense but in another- when we are done learning and growing in this world, we are ‘done’. At least for a time being.

The body ages. The mind ages. The spirit ages. We mature, grow, become, and then become something else to start all over. Age is not to be feared.

This is for the prompt ‘Stars’. I’ve asked my wonderful friend Crystalina to help me with my prompt writing by doing one with me once a day, if we’re able, and so this is the first one we had. She asked me to give her one off the top of me head instead of in the book and that’s what I came up with. :) This is the finale result.

Thank you Crystal. I couldn’t have gotten around to this without your help! You have so much potential as a writer, please never give up and never hold back your spirit. Talent like yours is too precious and rare a gem to go wasted in this world. I do not doubt you will do grand things.

[You can find her awesome and beautiful response to the prompt here.]
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The good mother moon rises slowly in the sky, dancing out from behind the guise of blue as day fades into dark, a quilt of twilight wrapped firmly around her shoulders.

Sagittarius, Gemini, Libra, and all the other great houses spin above us as she turns, embroidered on the edge of that great quilt. It’s woven with the stars and painted with dreams and mystery in hues of black, blue, and indigo. To us it appears little more than little lights in the great pool of dark, bright specks oh so far away.

Little more than her face is shown to us and sometimes not ever that as her crescent gaze falls upon the earth, sometimes a mere sliver and other times her full white glowing smile so bright and radiant it’s hard to make out the details. Other times it seems as though she isn’t there, hiding her face during the darkest of days no wonder little children do the same with blankets of their own. They have learned it from the mother.

Night moves on as she continues to twirl and rise in her quilt of stars. She sings with the voice of crickets and kisses us good day with a soft breeze. Her footsteps following a path older than time her dance slowly comes to a halt as she descends, worn at last.

She will rest once more under the guise of a day sweetened sky, all the while dreaming of the stars wrapped in her quilt of twilight.