Welcome back to another episode of Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge as hosted by Colleen of Silver Threading and Ronovan of Ronovan Writes. Now, I drafted this post as a piece of creative writing in general at first as part of another prompt. Then I thought to myself, “Wonder what the writing theme is today?” That’s when I went to Colleens blog and found Mystery. “Cool! I was already writing about the mysterious fog.” So, below is my creative piece and writer’s quote.
Dear fog, your kind of a mystery. I mean, what’s going on in there? I imagine its like when the clouds rise from their heavenly thrones like marching bands just to see what the ground feels like. Like when angels bow and secret themselves in the blanket of the air. Something familiar enough for the humans to recognize without fear. Fog. That moment when spirit meets earth in search of its other half. Floating its way through time wrapped in clouds and smelling of forever. I wonder if we become one with eternity just by walking through you. Like hands dipped in hope; the smell of expectation against our noses; a taste of courage on our tongues.
I think the Earth and everything around it is connected – the sky and the planets and the stars and everything else we see as a mystery.
– Marion Cotillard
The clouds outshine the sun today. They have somehow managed to rise from their floating thrones and to share their crown with us. There’s a splash of brightness in the air, but I am convinced it is not the sun; it is the clouds. And as the day looms with the kind of gloominess that gives off fatigue, I cannot help but wonder how many of us search ourselves in the shadows. In places where we are left with the ambiguity of image, and grow like a silhouette of flesh. Sometimes writing is gloomy like these clouds, light enough to swing suspended in the air but with rain drops too heavy to see. Illuminated, and yet barely understood. But the clouds outshine the sun today and inspiring writers have managed to reach the ground and nourish souls with their words. Writers, who emerge from behind obscurities like clouds, have come down from heaven to purify the air and make footstools of the soil, that their readers may eat.
The invisible force waiting until we want to write before blessing us with its presence; it moves gracefully throughout the smoke filled rooms of trial, tribulation and circumstance. In its left hand is a sickle of distraction, have you come forth to reap what had not yet been sown? In its right are the sketchy blackboards of daily events that only wish to distract away the concept of creativity. The unmovable rock falling from the sky like hailstones is writer’s block. It pops up unannounced and hides itself underneath our fingernails. Its motivation triggered only by greed; the satisfaction of witnessing the wavering minds too off guard not to let it in. I am determined, however, that the weathering of my mind and the inspiration of my thoughts will not give in to the falling bricks of mortar coming my way. I will gather the scraps of words lingering in the corners of unmarked territory, move against the stillness of idle hands and write about the sound of this here concrete tapping against my frontal lobe. I will see the weather changing and prepare myself against the storm.