Shelf upon shelf, mounds covering the tables, precarious piles on the floor. The landscape before her was truly breathtaking. It was a cornucopia of language that the erudite might have otherwise over looked, due to its all too shabby presentation. For her, it was like a jewel encrusted sword kept in a hand wrought leather sheath. It seemed that the playing field had been levelled. Classics stood shoulder to shoulder with Sci-fi. Spiritual guidance flanked relationship advice “best-sellers” and Philosophy leaned against chick-lit for support. The lack of organization only appealed to her even more.
I don’t know about you, but this made complete sense to me.
Every thought must not be shared or given words. Somethings are better left unsaid. But at times, those things you left unsaid eat you up inside. Some thoughts, feelings and emotions when put into words make it worse. Catharsis is not always the answer to your quandaries. A thought, once you put it out there, is gone. It’s not yours anymore. You lose it, can’t play with it, mould it, assess it or contemplate over it. It’s like an arrow that has been shot. A minute that passed by the little tick of a clock. An arrow, a minute and those words, can’t be taken back.
The worst and probably the best thing about life is that it’s unpredictable. You may spend half your life mulling over an idea, thinking what will be the repercussions of your actions and words, and you still cant be sure. Things you think you…
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“God knows you’re in the most depressing and discouraging surroundings — but that’s what makes a writer. You have to catch hell. You’ve got to take punishment … Write a lot — but see a lot more. Keep your ears and eyes going and try all the time to get your conversations right.”
Ernest Hemingway’s advice to a young writer
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