Secrets
Writing about writing
It wasn’t the chilly air or endless snow falling outside that made me cold. It was the knowing that for however long, I’d be stuck alone once again in this room, in this bed. Though my circumstance was more than most were blessed with, I selfishly wanted out. Regardless, over the last year and a half I'd been told remaining here would keep me safe, inside. But as time slowly went on, I began to doubt which was worse: isolation or infection.
By Sarah Said5 years ago in Confessions
Things to do if you are falling for your best friend's boyfriend.
Have you ever been in a position where you started developing strong feelings for your bestfriend's boyfriend? It is a terrible place to be in. you don’t know how to feel. You want to be happy for your friend, but somewhere you are jealous as well. you experience heartbreak when you see them together, at the same time you feel pathetic to cheat on your friend. You are always confused to select between your friend and her boyfriend.
By Simran Chimaniya5 years ago in Confessions
I Still Check The Back Of Wardrobes. Top Story - July 2021.
I wasn't middle-class enough to be read to, instead, I perfected reading by torchlight so I didn't wake up my brother with whom I shared a room. My parents would turn a blind-eye to the little glowing tent I formed every evening. Today, such a glow would be emanating from a screen and Youtube but in the late 80s and early 90s, the glow was reflecting off the heavily thumbed pages of The Chronicles of Narnia.
By Argumentative Penguin5 years ago in Confessions
Following a Thread
Following a thread is a metaphor for what it is I do to find inner peace. I am a self-producing musician. I write, record, mix, and master my favorite styles of music. There are a lot of finer details that are apart of these processes that I will gladly type out for you to read. There are places from which I draw inspiration from and these include listening to specific artists/musicians, watching certain movies, and also consuming certain types of content. All of this is a labor of love.
By James Bates5 years ago in Confessions
Marriage
I do I do I do I do I do..... What did I actually say I do to ? Oh! I wish that I knew what I Know now... Love and Marriage, go together like a horse and carriage. Songs have been sung for a Thousands of years, and if you stand in a desert and breathe through the stillness. It has been said, 'sounds and music come through the breeze guiding you in the right direction'.
By Karen Venus5 years ago in Confessions
"Invisible"
"What was, was" My life as it were. I was newly separated and in emotional pain all the time, way back in the late 1980s and early 1990s. My daughter Melissa had been born prematurely, and thereafter our security and lives changed forever. Life would never be safe again. It would not be sane. I would not have any skills or talents ever again.
By WriterS.InK Inc. (Sandy Groyer)5 years ago in Confessions
How to eat with just a little Stone
I love the way this story is told. The Stone’s Broth is a Portuguese traditional dish with a traditional tale. I like this story because it shows one of the best characteristics of the Portuguese people: we can always come up with some solution, whatever the fate gifts us. It’s an inspiration to go though depression and other kinds of problems.
By Sofia Duarte5 years ago in Confessions
Hey Cheerleader
My sophomore year started off great, I was the starting guard on an up-and-coming Tiger team. The previous year we were ACC regular season champs, one of Clemson’s greatest teams. I’m over visiting my teammates Mike & Mike, 2 of the craziest players to wear a Tiger uniform. We are laughing at them making fun of me, when a sexy long-legged blonde interrupts us. Taylor had been my friend since the beginning of freshman year. Our relationship was purely platonic, however she had gone through a few of my teammates and one of the Mikes was her latest victim. She sees me and gives this look that at first frightens me. Taylor was a man-eater of epic proportions, and I was sure she would gobble me up. However, she had other ideas for yours truly.
By Timothy Kincaid5 years ago in Confessions
I Write
I write. I have this Monkey that sits on my shoulder. From time to time it gets down into my ear and does a cannonball like flip into my stomach, where it then pulls itself up into a knot in my chest and eventually rests on the lump in my throat. Sometimes I go days choking on the words that have been brought up from my heart, it is unfortunate that this is the only way I can connect what I say with how I feel. As if the veil were never torn see my heart is caged by this grey matter that enacted some sort of autopilot in me. I am on a merry go round and the world is spinning around me I keep my eyes fixed above me and the few times the chaos begins to slow enough, that is when all the emotion Comes rushing up and I spew it out gasping for air in between. I hear a voice inside that tells me this is not real; I must have not survived some incident and this place I am in/that is in me, is my purgatory where anxious and blindfolded I wait. Everyone is the same yet different Like the book “The Langeliers” by Stephen King, I must have blinked and became engulfed in some black hole, I look down at my hands completely covered in black matter. I close my eyes and try to sense my kids, my family, anything familiar, but the taste even though slightly familiar is flat. I am paralyzed and trying to make contact. I mouth out the words “Wake me up.” The only voice that comes out is that of the monkey, I look at the people around me and without words I ask, “Did you hear that?” but they do not hear a thing. I close my eyes attempting to escape it. Motionless I listen to the stone-cold screams of the silence and a constant howling that only gets closer, so then I open my eyes to escape it. It tries to follow, and I quickly pick up my composition book as my armer, my pen becomes my sword I go into battle. Sometimes the only way out is the way I came in and sometimes I am far in before I realize it. I begin to search for crumbs left behind from my falling apart. I feel as if I am in a time capsule and the navigation has begun to malfunction. I open the pages of my journal and the words illuminate like a map. I can retrace my steps. There are days I am so exhausted I fall asleep inside of the pages and they wrap me up in their embrace and carry me to safety. I am here. I am alone but I am here. I consider I am much like an alien and then I wonder what an alien is, how do you describe one without using words made up by man. My subconscious stands on my shoulders as these thoughts begin to flood me and just as the water begins to reach my nose a being dressed in a white suit with blue pinstripes reaches out a hand to wipe my eyes and embraces me with warmth and belonging, I am consumed by a light feeling that says, “Wont you tell me all about it?” It begins, Words are spilling out and filling in the lines trapping the monkey, with all its doubt, inside. Six O’clock becomes clear again and that grey matter that once made up the sarcophagus that encased my heart comes alive as if a spell has been lifted, in all resilience it finds its way back to where it belongs on this vessel. I learn a little more about myself and become a little more familiar, a little more aware of the passenger on board that seeks to sink my ship. My name is Gabrielle Jourden Garland, I search my soul, I search the universe, and I write to escape it.
By Gabrielle Garland 5 years ago in Confessions
