the writer

another writer just trying to find the words to describe the lives we live, with the delicate help of all things ice-tea.
When my hair dawns on silver and i look to the past, i would like to see myself small in a bright white room, at an oak table delicately detailed. Surrounded by crinkled paper a thousand times looked over. Typing frantically as my characters speak to me, taking chances I myself would not as they go places i myself have created. The warm afternoon sun floating through the extravagantly huge windows, as shelves lined with countless books soak in the the orange atmosphere.  When i look to the past i would like to see a dream dreamed so excruciatingly constant, that it has crossed over the invisible line of reality. And reached the land of beautiful memory. -thewriterx

When my hair dawns on silver and i look to the past, i would like to see myself small in a bright white room, at an oak table delicately detailed. Surrounded by crinkled paper a thousand times looked over. Typing frantically as my characters speak to me, taking chances I myself would not as they go places i myself have created. The warm afternoon sun floating through the extravagantly huge windows, as shelves lined with countless books soak in the the orange atmosphere. 

When i look to the past i would like to see a dream dreamed so excruciatingly constant, that it has crossed over the invisible line of reality.

And reached the land of beautiful memory.

-thewriterx

Jodi Picoult the author of ‘My Sisters Keeper’ said this about her characters “Writing is like having schizophrenia, except i get paid to hear the voices”. -thewriterx

Jodi Picoult the author of ‘My Sisters Keeper’ said this about her characters

“Writing is like having schizophrenia, except i get paid to hear the voices”.

-thewriterx

i have found a hunger for life that can not be satisfied

a gaping hole that has carved its way through my soul

like the ocean drinks the rain so my life consumes every day

bright eyed and never to be torn away

But a lily left in the shadows to whither

so my life was, an apple bitter

the light of the moon has pierced through this darkness

giving me the key to a world so heartless

that i may find the light of the son

to move through the valley of death

with but my only gun

to move through this valley of death

with but the only son.

and so my broken heart

welcomes the circled axis

for this beloved new start

means no more unpaid taxes.

Good morning life

and goodnight to all the false practice.

-thewriterx

Advice? I don’t have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon. Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don’t. Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.

—Alan Watt (via neil-gaiman)

(Source: blog.gaiam.com, via sheloveswords)

WORDS really can change an entire world.

(Source: bofaninja)

this has nothing to do with writing, but it makes me smile every time i watch it.

this has nothing to do with writing, but it makes me smile every time i watch it.

(Source: farfonhaindomita)

this is my war

This is my battle, my war.

There is only so much another person can help you before you have to go it alone.

Because when your exhausted mind wages war on your weakened heart, when your clouded thoughts blindside an already scarred spirit. There is only so much another person can help you before you must step off the edge of light into the battlefield of darkness.

As the crowds of doubtful thoughts armed with the powerful force of confused rage enter the very skin of you entire being, the pit of your chest becoming the gruesome front line for the ultimate slaughter of the soul at the hands of an u-merciful mindset.

A spirit which was once a dandelion dancing in rain, petals torn but not yet missing. A spirit so sweetly broken. A spirit now brought to its knees by the thick fear and disbelief this world has injected into the mind which once held a solemn bond with so innocent spirit.

to be continued…

-thewriterx

life is only as beautiful as you’ll let yourself see

Run, just run.

I love to run. Not because everyone says it’s good for me. Not because it’s keeping my fit and healthy. But because i’m actually moving. For an hour everyday i actually feel like i’m going somewhere. I actually have a point in the road that i’m trying to reach, that I can actually see, that is actually getting closer with every breathless stagger. I’m not standing, not sitting not crawling or being dragged, not wondering around wondering what’s next? Where do I go from here? ..I’m actually moving.

For an hour everyday, i actually know where i’m going.

                                                                                      -thewriterx

teenager: that beautiful disaster between what was and what will be

—thewriterx