Stream of Consciuosness 1

This is an experiment.

The rain is such a faulty representation of the mood I’m in right now. Or is it a great representation? Have we been getting it all wrong? Rain is the Earth’s medicine for growth, baptism, new life. Why have we viewed it as a symbol of pessimism? Sure, not everyone likes the cold, I know I don’t like the cold. And yeah sometimes it’s not the prettiest with its grays and blacks everywhere causing muck and mud. It still has its rare pretty moments though. Rain gives us rainbows, right? Sunlight can’t do it on its own. Sunlight can’t do anything on its own. We can’t do anything on our own. Don’t overwhelm me with your justification of independence and strength for not needing a companion all right? You still have at least one friend, don’t you. Oh Lord, this is tough. I don’t want to repeat my self over and over again. I’m quite scared that this won’t help me with my writer’s block entirely. However, it’s quite relaxing, not having to have structure or a specific theme or other lists for how to write. I don’t have to draw a plot diagram or over think about metaphors and forms of personification needed. My shoulders are kind of tense, but at least my head is clear. I was looking forward to this break, this holiday. Thanksgiving has the tendency to be the undermined sidekick to Christmas, but don’t people realize that it’s one of the only holidays in which you can spend time with family and friends without having to give them presents? You can just eat food, enjoy company, watch movies and rest. You don’t have to follow suit with awkward, planned out games some social circles may force upon you. Holidays make us obligated to force out more love than we have to, but I don’t believe Thanksgiving does that as much as other holidays. It does stink that many charitable acts are emphasized during Thanksgiving and Christmas when charity should always be emphasized. Many feel obligated to volunteer and preach goodness and mercy during the holidays for a gift in return. Just as it is tradition to cook a turkey every year in this American society instead of spending it on cheaper food, it is tradition to place on a bejeweled smile in order to give and receive instead of focusing more on the giving. Oy, didn’t intend this to be a “ticked at the world” kind of post. There are many good things in the world, I don’t just post about the bad. I hope to bring awareness, that’s what’s good about writing, to bring people together in this knowledge when outside of art, you would hardly bother to. Tense shoulders. I’m baking cookies this Thanksgiving with my cousin, that will be fun. Keep Michael Brown’s family in your prayers. What’s upsetting is that many, including myself, were not surprised by the jury’s decision. I’ll place a link in the comments if anyone is confused or haven’t heard on the news or social media yet. My family got two cats a month ago. My two sisters own one each: Dan and Roseann. Clever, huh? I enjoy writing. It’s soothing. Reading can be soothing too. I haven’t tried painting often. Sometimes I can be good at it and sometimes I can’t, but the few times I tried, it has been quite relaxing. Even when it looks like a blobbed, colorful mess. When it actually looks good, that’s when I feel confident. Haha. I miss acting in plays. Finding time to audition more would be pretty nice. Oh, time. A constructed concept we must obey to keep society moving. I always liked to believe that Time and I have a compromise, but now I’m not entirely sure. However, I find it idiotic to rebel against it by being late to everything I attend. I don’t find that very smart. Time is a helpful concept in some aspects. Breathe. That has been showing up a lot in my writing, my prayers, I write my prayers a lot too, my therapist has been showing me breathing exercises. It’s time to bake cookies now. I hope this finds someone well.

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Published!

The link that will be provided is a website that leads to the PDF file of Expressions Magazine. It is a minority literary and arts publication that they finally started up again after a whole year. I have a short story titled “Truth: a Work of Historical Fiction.” It is about two brothers who write letters to each other; one brother is at home living with his mothers and the other is in college. I wrote it in July as a submission for the North Carolina Humanities Council, but it did not get in. However, in September, when I heard about Expressions launching again, I submitted “Truth” right away.

And it got in! Yes!

http://www.ecu.edu/cs-studentaffairs/expressions/publications.cfm

The whole magazine is so well done. All of the submissions provided honesty and awareness of what many believe is too sensitive of a topic to talk about. You should especially check out the written and painted works by Zach Timmons, Jasmin Balcazar-Romero, Sierra Brown, Bianca Butler, Tyree Jones, and Glory Illuyomade.

Poem: Unplug

Note: A lot of poems lately. Crazy. When using the word “you,” I include myself and anyone reading this piece.

Turn away from the screeching SOS signs

From you pen and paper.

Ignore the moans from the hindered

Paints and canvases.

You have the patriotic colors of

Red and white

To turn to.

I do not speak of two-thirds

Of colors from a nationalist’s wet dream.

I’m taking about the

Flashes of Netflix and YouTube

Conspicuously and subliminally

Overtaking your sense of oneness.

These fictitious and idolized

Friends have claimed us as our own.

Why turn away from them now?

It’s difficult to wake up

From the comfortable LSD footage of

Someone creating something

That you don’t have to.

Not anymore.

Screw being the one tie dye fleck

In a conformed white t-shirt.

After many attacks of addicting detergent,

The garb is squeaky clean.

White views

And white noise

Keep your clothes nice and fresh.

Yay for the infomercials for life

Because you didn’t have to come up with that

Regurgitation.

Don’t you dare upchuck.

The bile has become tastier now.

No one truly wants to withdraw

From an alluring illness.

Repetition becomes an addiction too.

Weaving something new from you own fingers is tiring.

The same romantic, heroic, violent, sensational

Picks, clicks, and images

Have been the top conveniences.

It’s easier to find the newest cat video

Than to find your old notebook.

Art cries for you

And you refuse to hear her.

She is much more than a petty damsel in distress.

She is a lady.

Sophistication and purpose

Are all in her bundles and curves.

Yet you decided to stuff her into a desk drawer

To give light to shiny laptop

On the pedestal.

Binging at the bar of

“Just one more season,”

“Just one more scroll,”

Is the act of true triumph nowadays.

Why don’t you give your lady a chance again?

Let the fingernails chip and be covered

In acryllics and scribbles.

Not lustful chip crusts

Curling inside while hugging your whole fingers

To accompany your time at a phony, self-made, movie theater.

Respond to her SOS.