So, you've been thinking about writing. Maybe a short story, or a novel even. And you eagerly go out on the internet to read "how-to's" by published authors, or maybe even buy a book or two about (ironically) how to write a book. And after you've sifted through all this information, you learn something very important:
There is no one, true way.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Everything is gray here. The trees, the grass, the sea, the sky--all of it gray, life that thrives though it has all been emptied of all color. It's a reflection of this place that is not a place, this in-between existence where night and day are forever entwined in a world of dawn and twilight. It is quiet as a lover's whisper, and as still as the dead who temporarily call it home.
But not all is quiet and still, though to the untrained eye, it would certainly seem that way. If you look closely, as I do, you will see the patches of memories the dead recreate. Everything from despair to joy can be seen and felt and heard in every detail if one only chooses to acknowledge these, the final reckonings of those who have passed.