If I could write the way I want to it would sweep the world off its feet. Little snippets of prose written in dark rooms, a large dose of poetry penned in a sunlit meadow… Writing is such a huge part of my life. I want to write the feeling of wind blowing through my hair, I want to etch emotions of absolute despair and aloneness onto paper. I want to type hope, and the sound of the geese in the sky. I need to write; it is a gift that God has given me, and I am eternally grateful. I wonder what writing will be like in heaven.? There will be writing in heaven, I am sure. Today I will share another vain earthly attempt of mine to write the emotions of my life onto your heart. Two pieces: one prose, one poetry, both one step closer to this goal of writing feelings.
(I wrote it in a block for something different.)
Wind in my hair, and red in my cheeks, arms stretched open wide. Moon in the sky; waves on the water. I feel like I could fly. Words in the wind, whispers lost in the breeze, as secrets wisp away. Joy in my heart and a song on my lips, it feels like an Eden day. Eyes on the horizon, bare feet on wood dock, I can’t move from this place. Wind in my hair, and red in my cheeks, back to this world I have to face.
(_____ is in place of a name.)
I can see it in my head. I can see his face: brown eyes, brown hair. He’s slouching, bookbag at his feet staring intently at something out the window; nothing out the window. It’s the same scene as it was yesterday that he squints at so involvedly. You have to wonder what he is thinking about behind those unchanging features.
His eyes flit- I think he knows I am watching him. He is lost in thought yet not unaware. _____ always has been a man of few words. I hesitate to call him a man, but he is not a boy. The small scar on his cheek marks his past woes, his present ones are mirrored in those eyes. Those eyes… I have seen eyes like that before on this bus. They were blue. Not yet sixteen, but a man all the same. Another face with scars. Those who stare out as the same thing passes every day; staring but not really seeing. It is not an altogether foreign concept to me, though I tend to gaze through this paper, to use this ink as a lens while squinting to see the world beyond.