The Color of Darkness

It isn't black.

The color of darkness, that is.

That nameless shade of darker grey that blankets our vision in the absence of light - it isn't nameless at after all. The German have a word for it: eigengrau

'Intrinsic Grey'.That's what it means. That's what it is. Simple as that.

Yet, nowadays, most people do not know the word, do not recognize the darkness as a color. They give the color other titles instead, unfeeling ones meant to offer a degree of explanation, such as 'visual noise' or 'background adaptation' or some other and scientists grasp for some proper explanation for why such a phenomenon exists.

Science is advancement. Something positive, but...

... isn't it nice to think that the color of nothing has a name as well?

Imagine it in a storybook, a word in a description of some person or a feeling.

"His eyes weren't black. It was a softer sort of darkness, the kind that seemed to fade into the shadows when you turn off the lights. Eigengrau - that was the word for it, for the softer, gentler sort of darkness that envelops you before you sleep. His eyes were that very shade.

Maybe that's how he made people feel so at ease."

It isn't bad, once in a while, to unplug everything that glows, draw the curtains, kill the lights, and just stare into that lightless expanse of grey.

Eigengrau

Once in a while

It isn’t bad

To just unplug the glows

Draw the drapes

Kill the lights

And stare into

That dark and endless

Nothingness

That vast expanse of grey

Writing Isn't Easy

http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.kr/2014/01/writing-isnt-easy.html

Like the blog post linked above says, it is a very common misconception that writing is something 'easy'. This is a phrase I take with a great amount of amusement and my muse takes with a passionate tirade at the ready. That being said, please grant me a minute to take some... preemptive measures.

Alright, now that I've sorted out that little mess, time to get serious with this blog post.

Yes, writing is hard. I might have misled some people around me with my ramblings of stories and fawning over my own characters and the sheer number of embarrassing, obsessive moments they have caught me in, but enjoyment does not mean that writing is easy.

Writing most certainly is not easy.

It is anything but easy, and moments that they are easy are normally either on a caffeine high or a new stage of sleep deprivation. Most of the time, I end up frustrated and leaning head into hands in internal agony, silenced by the fact that I am supposed to be doing other work and screaming in aggravation would draw attention to the fact that I am not in fact doing said other work.

Sometimes I end up slamming Tico closed or chucking away the pen (only if it's cheap), and walking away for a good hour or two. Sometimes days. More than once, I've fallen into insecurity about my writing style or story ideas or characterization, how my thoughts are too immature, too narrow-minded, too unfocused, etc. etc. etc. I could fill a whole hard drive with a list of the negative thoughts I have about my writing at times.

All that drama and I'm not even trying to get published yet.

Ah, the stress once I start trying, now that is a terrifying thought.

However, despite the additional stress that writing as a craft may give me, I cannot imagine giving it up. Ever. Writing is hard. It is the only thing I have ever done with my life that requires this much diligence and determination from me. People who think of writing as a pastime is another shade of passion, but the people actively seeking publication devote so much of themselves to the act that I find it amazing. I find all published authors, even if subject content is met with disapproval or notoriety, worthy of respect simply because they survived the process.

Writing is hard, and somehow that fulfills me. I want to finish my first novel of quality. I want to mail that first manuscript. I want to get that first rejection letter. Writing is hard, but that's part of the charm. The amount of heart I have to put into the words I scribe, the stories I tell, in hopes that I'll be able to make another person, even just one person just feel something, is extraordinary. I sometimes don't think I have it in me.

That's when I sit with a cup of tea and fresh strawberries or yogurt and have a long chat with my muse. That usually sorts me out and clears my head. Ah, it seems I've veered off topic. Here I was trying to elaborate on how and why writing is hard, but it's turned into a blog post about me instead.

My sincerest apologies for that.

Windshield Wipers

In the windshield of my father's car
I see a thousand stars and the wiper
Sweeps across
And smears them
Shifting time forward
Tracing their orbit as the earth continues to turn.

Insatiable Boredom

It's an insect that burrows into your brain and makes its nest in the core of it. Quite the gruesome description, but given the rushing headache plaguing my senses, I find it apt. This insect makes a home of the mind and feeds upon the emotions, first enjoyment, then amusement, and all variants of that sensation.

The insect then proceeds to crawl towards the juiciest part of the mind, overflowing with creativity and inspiration, and it drinks those until none is left, leaving a withered husk where ideas once pooled. It settles there, and grows larger, feeding off the human mind.

Just like that, it continues to drink and feed and contaminate the brain and the parasite doesn't allow for its host to feel even the slightest sensation, merely an all-encompassing, soul-devouring emptiness brought upon by a lack of emotions, a lack of enthusiasm, and a lack of ideas to resolve the problem.

Homework is, as any high school student would say, certainly not the answer.

Someone please come and extract this terrible insect from my mind.
It would be much appreciated.

On the way home...

In the middle of the street, on the dotted yellow line
There was a shoe.

Not a pair.
Just one.

There was nothing particularly eye-catching about the shoe itself.
It was pale blue.
Clean, free of tire marks.
A velcro sneaker.
Small.

Maybe a toddler's.

It was there on the middle of the street, resting perfectly -
A little crooked, but sole-down, saddle-up -
Right on the yellow line.

Just something to think about today.