Tag Archive | words

Just beneath the surface.

I truly have no idea what I want to write. I suppose that’s not entirely true, I’ve too many things I want to write would be a far exceedingly accurate representation of my current situation. There are so many words inside of me, fighting to be set free. They seem to be canceling each other out in an effort to be given life.

Long kept memories, some good, some I wish could simply be forgotten, wrestle with the new, clamoring for release. Ideas and epiphanies stored in the recesses of my mind, stories and dreams and fantasies, ancient hopes and longings, emerging wishes, knowledge and insights begging to be shared. The cacophony of silent rumblings never seem to rest.

The tangled remnants of thoughts within me wrestle with emerging ruminations, which do I favor? How do I choose? I sit to write, willing one or the other to rise to the surface, making my choice clear, but I wait in vain. They can’t decide so I must choose, but the how eludes me. They taunt me, floating just below the horizon of conscious thought, knowing I can’t quite reach them there.

Sometimes I doubt their existence, call them tormentors and illusions, but that would mean I’ve gone mad without realizing I’d somehow slipped from realities grasp. No, they are as real as the pen I hold. They are unforgiving perhaps, slighted in some way because I did not release them sooner, I could not release them, it wasn’t their time. Perhaps it still isn’t.

Maybe tomorrow they will willingly come . . .

Crystal R. Cook

This Place

Jul3

A place to be who I am
no walls to hold me
no chains to bind me
A light in the
dark recesses
of my soul
Acceptance
long searched for
may finally
be found
No longer alone
with my
thoughts
never shared
no one cared
until I found
this place
where the
thoughts of many
are kept by keepers
who know
the value of
each one.

Crystal R. Cook

I rise and write.

Jul3

Hendrick ter Brugghen – Old Man Writing by Candlelight

When the sun settles for the night and the moon begins its reign, I rise and I write.

Insomnia is often a writer’s friend, perhaps even their only friend at times. It can also be an innocent and unintentional adversary. Many nights I have laid my head upon my pillow in hopes of drifting into dream. Instead, my mind begins to think on things I should have thought of throughout the day. Ideas and epiphanies chance moonlight visits to my conscious mind, begging me to rise and give them life upon a page.

Sonnets of silence serenade me with lullabies not meant to calm me to rest, but rather charm me to dream a thousand wakeful dreams. With my eyes open, pen in hand, word by beautiful word, they enchant me. A writer’s respite is not often found in the dark of night. Meandering minutes quickly turn to hours when a wandering muse beckons. When night retreats to the rising sun and the words silence to claim the sleep that was meant to be mine, it is time again to start another day.

Coffee in hand I stumble through, vowing not to stir again before the morning sun. I almost make myself believe I will slumber when the night comes, but when it does the seduction of solitude is too much to resist and I find myself once again, dancing with words across a page like lovers in a dream. I know too well the next day will be filled with weary eyes and a yawning, yearning for sleep.

Sometimes, when the night words come to steal my tomorrow, I refuse to play. When I do not heed their call, they whisper louder to lure me from my bed, knowing I will mourn their loss if I do not rise and claim them for my own. As a willing servant I follow and frolic just as I did the night before. Though happy to have the gift of them granted to me, I know there will be a price to pay, and I gladly pay it without pause.

There are moments I admit I have wished them gone. When my tired eyes blur and my head pounds in time with the beating of my heart, sometimes I wish them gone . . . but not really. Without them I would cease to exist, at least I fear I would. Every now and again, they retreat and sleep consumes me. I never fear their leave of me; they are silent and still only long enough for my body and mind to rejuvenate before they come again to play.

I welcome them and look to the light of the moon to guide our way through another night.

Crystal R. Cook

Writers Angst

Jun9

I’m not good enough. It is as simple as that; I’m just not good enough. There is a wicked little voice somewhere inside of me, whispering of my inadequacies, reminding me of my shortcomings. I’ve tried to quell it with all of the positive thinking I can muster, but still it never quiets. If I could rid myself of this angst I imagine I would rise higher into the literary heights I often dream of, but alas, the beast that it is does not share my dreams.

It cannot stop the words from flowing forth; it cannot keep me bound in some wordless prison. No, all of my words are locked up right alongside of me. Every now and again I find escape. Every now and then I feel a sense of accomplishment. Each time I do however, the voice begins to babble. Each time I see my name in print it should fill me with pride and it quite often does, sadly though, it doesn’t last for long.

I question each word I write, for the longest time I kept my words hidden so no one would see. It is a small victory for me each time I show the world what lay within me. I often wonder if this battle will always be. If I will always feel not good enough, if I will ever stop waiting for someone to finally tell me to stop writing and wasting my time.

Words have been my constant companions; they have never failed me, never judged me, never left me. They let me do with them what I will; they give themselves to me without question. The voice tells me they are not mine to have, I am not worthy of them.

In my heart I do not believe it, in my heart I know my words are meant to be, I know I am worthy of them. It is not my heart that stands between me and what could be, it is my mind, my ever working, ever wondering, ever wandering mind that builds the walls I must climb.

It is a sometimes a struggle to knock them down, yet brick by brick they fall and I make my way past the rubble and travel with my head held high, praying no more walls will block my path. I know I will one day find the strength to hush the voice of doubt, for I know that small, yet powerful voice is my own.

Crystal R. Cook

With words as my wings

Jun9

In the serenity
of sweet silence,
a passing muse
softly beckons,
together
we soar
high above
this plane of
existence.

With pen in hand,
I wrap my soul
in the warmth,
and wonder,
and whimsy
of words.

I revel
in the release
of my spirit,
transported to
that perfect place
where words
dance.

I give
the breath
of life
to my every
thought,
my every
dream,
my every
desire,
surrounding
myself
in the peace
they bring.

I fly without fear,
with words
as my wings,
frolicking,
fearless
and free . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Writer

Jun8

As long as there are words, there will be someone at the ready with their quill of choice to pen them. Words have always been, and words will always be . . . so we write.

I write because it sustains me, it brings me peace. I write so I will live on in my words when my time on earth has passed. My voice immortalized forever upon a page in hopes the children of my grandchildren may one day hear me and know who I once was. I hope they know when they hold my words in their hearts, they are holding me.

Writing is the sweetest of freedoms. It breaks the chains which try to bind us to this world. It is freedom to release and let go of angst or anger, sadness or fear. Freedom to soar above this plane of existence and reach heights never before reached. When we write we are free to be all of who we are when the world seeks to quell our voices.

I must share the words that well within me. I must write of my joys and my sorrows, my memories and my dreams. I must share the knowledge I have gained and I must write to learn, for there is much to be learned. In my words I am real. No pretences, no expectations and no judgments.

To some, writing is as essential as the air around them, each word a life-sustaining breath, a beat of their heart. Words hold healing for the one who writes them as well as the one who reads them; there is power in each stroke of the pen. The written word is a gift of greatest worth.

Writers teach, they entertain, they inspire and they motivate, they capture and they captivate. If writers ceased to give life to words, knowledge would no longer be gained, memories would fade, and the most important of things would be forever forgotten.

Some writers learn to write, honing their craft to create, others were born with the blessing of words ready to flow from their fingertips, all share their gift with the world, leaving the mark of their soul on humanity. Many writers have helped mold the lives of those who read their words. People are shaped, in no small part, by what they read in life; they carry the words within them. Enlightenment is often found in the pages of a book, a simple thought, printed and bound, can be a life changing epiphany for someone else. What greater gift could a writer give or receive? I can think of none better.

Writers must write. I truly don’t think there are words enough to explain just why we dance this dance with words. We simply must write . . .

Crystal R. Cook