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Freewriting- warm up for Compo Test
I like to do this...thing. Before composition tests (every Tuesday), I'd freewrite. This was a (surprisingly coherent) page of my Exercise Book from this week. It's a really noncommittal thing, but I like it. Thoughts?
I want to write a story.
I want to write a story I can drown in. I want it to be an ocean. I want it to be endless and unexpected, no matter how much of it one's explored. I want it to be deceptively deep. I want it to be profound, bottomless, in the sense that perhaps one needn't see the end--on just needs to know that it's there, somewhere, always a breath a way; and that a breath is no different than an eternity.
I want to write a story I can get lost in. I want it to be a forest--dangerous and tranquil, abundant yet famished, bloody and beautiful. It'd be a forest full of faeries and nymphs, of satyrs, spirits, and small gods and goddesses--but one would never find them unless one looks. Look and listen. I want it to be a forest with ancient trees that breach the Sky, and minuscule, separate forests of moss on boulders and the banks of the streams of Time and Dream that flow through its heart.
I want to write a story I can go mad in. I want it to be a desert, with the wind constantly blowing grains of sand into new, unique, yet perfectly identical dunes; where the ice is year-round; where the stars are out every single night, and where you'd still be in the same place you were in five hundred miles ago. I want it to be a Möbius strip.
I want to write a story that evokes emotions I want it to be an inferno of desire, of sorrow, of joy, anger, hatred, love, doubt, faith, and everything and anything. I want it to be a blazing strip of wildfire. I want its heat to be blinding. I want it to ignite the same blaze within all who read it, connecting all in Flame. I want it to burn.
I want to write a story that chills to the bone. I want it to be the wrath of a blizzard as well as the silence of a wasteland. I want it to elicit trembles and shivers, to freeze tears onto one's eyelashes--to turn each and every breath into a white ghost that wrenches itself from one's mouth. I want it to freeze.
But for now, I'll keep quiet. No-one's ready for it yet. Not even me. But I will be, one day. And one day, the story--my story--will be written.
I want to write a story.
I want to write a story I can drown in. I want it to be an ocean. I want it to be endless and unexpected, no matter how much of it one's explored. I want it to be deceptively deep. I want it to be profound, bottomless, in the sense that perhaps one needn't see the end--on just needs to know that it's there, somewhere, always a breath a way; and that a breath is no different than an eternity.
I want to write a story I can get lost in. I want it to be a forest--dangerous and tranquil, abundant yet famished, bloody and beautiful. It'd be a forest full of faeries and nymphs, of satyrs, spirits, and small gods and goddesses--but one would never find them unless one looks. Look and listen. I want it to be a forest with ancient trees that breach the Sky, and minuscule, separate forests of moss on boulders and the banks of the streams of Time and Dream that flow through its heart.
I want to write a story I can go mad in. I want it to be a desert, with the wind constantly blowing grains of sand into new, unique, yet perfectly identical dunes; where the ice is year-round; where the stars are out every single night, and where you'd still be in the same place you were in five hundred miles ago. I want it to be a Möbius strip.
I want to write a story that evokes emotions I want it to be an inferno of desire, of sorrow, of joy, anger, hatred, love, doubt, faith, and everything and anything. I want it to be a blazing strip of wildfire. I want its heat to be blinding. I want it to ignite the same blaze within all who read it, connecting all in Flame. I want it to burn.
I want to write a story that chills to the bone. I want it to be the wrath of a blizzard as well as the silence of a wasteland. I want it to elicit trembles and shivers, to freeze tears onto one's eyelashes--to turn each and every breath into a white ghost that wrenches itself from one's mouth. I want it to freeze.
But for now, I'll keep quiet. No-one's ready for it yet. Not even me. But I will be, one day. And one day, the story--my story--will be written.
Published 27th Aug 2014
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