Staring Through The Eyes of Innocence.
I remember, as a child, smiling for no reason. There was something within me then which has long since died, replaced by those things I needed to survive. I long to have it back; to play in long grass for no reason other than that it is there; to search tidal pools for hours simply to glimpse something I have never seen; to love life for what it is, not what it can give me, believing it will never end.
As adults we become cultured beasts, making plans and working hard to fulfill them in the hopes one day we will be happy. But children have no such needs; they are simply happy without cause, and such a thing amazes me.
Sure, kids get angry and upset too, but in a flash it can be forgotten, replaced by laughter and mirth as distraction takes over and their pain is forgotten.
Ah, to have such a gift would be to gain true freedom. Imagine coming home from work and being able to leave everything on the doorstep – all your pain, woes and stresses of a long day could be replaced by fun as you step inside your door and escape.
That is the magic a writer possesses.
Every word written is a step along the path of imagination which we all unknowingly crave, which we all gave up when we became adults. A page becomes a universe, our universe, which grows to be anything we wish it to be. It is that thing a child has which adults often lack, the freedom from reality which makes life go from tedium to extraordinary. It has the ability to bring your smile back, yes that smile, and you can go there whenever time permits, to escape everything that annoys or hurts, and step back into the eyes of innocence for a while.
Think about it. Imagination stems from the ability to shut off reality, to close down the sectors of the mind which say it isn’t true and create that which we wish to be true instead – just like a child. I long to become one with this child-like mind, but only after merging it with my adult intellect, creating something more than mere daydreams, giving birth to life.
Sure, it might not be corporeal forms of life, but in my mind they live nonetheless. Hopefully these dreams made words translate for my readers also, becoming more than mere imagination, more than simple stories.
I hope they become a world unto themselves.
If that happens, then my task upon this planet is complete, and my final rest will be a peaceful one. But not for a long time, there is far too much more imagining left for me to do.
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A Taste of Joy
Everyone, from the lowest crust of the echelon to the most noble of royalty has savored its sweetness, immersing themselves within a sensation so pure as to strip aside all rank, leaving only humanity behind. It is more than emotion, stepping beyond the superficial of sentiment, like a starburst of bliss paling everything else in its wake.
It is joy.
How could something so priceless be free? Whether from a promotion well earned to a dream long sought, joy is beyond happiness, more than excitement, away from love. It is a mash of all these – and yet more.
Relationships bounce through all spectrums and phases, but true love can find its way, each moment of joy a buoy through oceans of hardship, a shield against firestorms of imperfection, a ladder from dark wells of despair. It may be a simple conversation, a burst of honest emotion, a moment of joined reflection, or it might be more, so much more, so that the space between joyful moments seems to exist not at all, and you go from existing to truly living.
All emotions coalesce around it, burning fiercely within the hearts of the valiant in the guise of hope, waiting to burst free upon victory, when that surviving breath is drawn betwixt terror-stretched lips. The dawn first seen after enduring something beyond endurance brings with it rays of joy along with warmth, both for the body and the soul.
A child newly born smiling blindly can slash through the hardest of hearts, shining a light where none other might reach, a beam of pure joy through all hardship, whereas a simple word of thanks or praise can trigger its emergence from behind the darkest scowl, bringing a smile to a mouth long-bent in misery. One who has long walked the dark road of depression may find it hardest to find joy, but it resides there nonetheless , cloaked within wretchedness and pain, locked in a vault with only one key, but the key is still there, no matter how impossible it seems to find. And like a cure for disease it will unravel years of neglect and anguish in its wake, a scalpel made of delight, stitches twined from elation, leaving the scar of illness behind, a memory forever haunting, but harmless in the light that now shines within.
So when doubts drag you down and all seems lost, hold to the hope joy will emerge once more, for without that hope you may never truly seek it again, drowning within sorrows, raping your soul and tearing asunder a once-wonderful essence, denying it forever from the world it once loved.
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