750words

I recently discovered a new to me website called 750words.com. It has succeeded in inducing me to write more in the past few days every day than I have in a very long time. It works mysteriously. I like it and I am on a streak. It gives you the opportunity to write with no expectations regarding content. Just open yourself and write. To quote Buster “Just write about whatever’s on your mind, and don’t worry about censoring yourself or second-guessing yourself. This is about figuring out what’s going on way deep down there in your head. Soon enough, you’ll have a streak going.”

Following is the entry that I made there today. Most of what I post there I will keep private but once in a while I will cross-post here either an entire post or at least an excerpt:

It’s like a whirlwind, daily life. The alarm goes off in the morning an you start moving through a series of deadlines – getting ready for work – drive – errand – drive – gettIng to work – work – lunch – work – leave work – drive – errand – drive – gym – drive – arrive home – chores – go to bed – sleep – start over.

@NaNoWriMo: “We define ourselves by our stories. You happen to do it once a year in a novel.” Celebrating #dayonwriting #whatiwrite http://t.co/yDUfVG0A

Our memories are culled as we progress through life. I remember having memories that I know longer have. I remember the memories that I have told stories about the best. I remember being told stories about my family for which I can no longer remember the details. Now that the storytellers are gone I wish that I could better remember their stories. If I am defined by my stories and by the stories of my family, then I lose a piece I myself for every detail is forgotten. My religious background is not one that includes ancestor worship but I envy those who know more about their ancestors than I know about mine. I visit an old family grave and I wonder who were you? What did people think of you? Were you a good person? Did you have adventures? What stories were told about you that have now been forgotten? If I researched, would I learn enough about you to tell your story? What fiky traditions that I cherish were yours? What characteristics do we share? What stories were told to you?

I listen to Koke fm and kokefm.com. I sure hope they continue to stay in the air with the same personality that they have now. I am glad that I found out they were comin into being before they actually went live!

How do you know when people truly like you vs they are being nice to you because they want something from you?

The sky is cloudless bright light blue. The sun pierces through the top edge of the a windshield defying all attempts to be shielded. Traffic snarls between red lights inching forward at when green breaks forth. Window reflections distort reality. Three doors stand open in mid air admitting city sounds and smells. No people appear on the decorated patios; do they ever? What would it be like to live in a penthouse of a skyscraper? Where do the people go when they aren’t here?

It is easier to judge an action than take an action.

Shadows extend bleeding into each other as people scurry to their place of belonging.

Watching television. Difficult but not impossible a character said. That seems to be standard for television. All things seem possible. I wonder what influence this outlook had on my worldview after having watched uncountable hours of television throughout my life?

There is always just one more question in life isn’t there? Another character said. If you stop and think. That is fairly deep. Would each person have a different final question unique upon themselves? Not A verbalized question but the one in their kind deep in their soul.

A meditation (half real half imagined):
I walked down a graveled path physically relaxed and deep in thought somewhere deep within a place dwelled a place I hope never to meet in reality. The worst of fears imagined in minute detail the scene played out. Reactions and ramifications explored. All the while, embraced by the soft breeze as if in spiritual comfort given surrounded by the soft singing of the trees as the sun sunk beneath the soft horizon and the bright light faded to purple twilight. Observed by a cold slivered silvery moon I was mired deep within a walking day-mare complete with half-heard music. No ending would bring comfort. No climax to neatly synthesize and make sense. No logical wrapping up of all the details. Only the cold splash of dark reality.

There are not always answers to the questions that we ask of ourselves. No, not even always attempts to be honest even with ourselves. We lie even as we invent possible outcomes. Why? The human condition is confusing. People are contradictory and argumentative.

A candle burns. Why does that speak to our elementary selves? Is it the promise of light in the midst of cold darkness? Is it the scent of the wax that fuels the flame? Is it the warmth promised by knowledge and felt by nearness? Is it the slightest sound when still focused attention is given? Perhaps Primordial Memory.

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