Creative Writing





Keep Relying On Dead Stars.

The fog reminded us that purgatory was close, retinas taking nothing but our palms.

Moving our fingertips, carving names onto glass, we disguised them with our breath, finding our way back.

I think we’re alone now,’ I said. ‘I can hear the angels.’

Writing The Details.

Within a single day of our lives, we perceive thousands of small details that we do not pay attention to. The name tag of the person that served us, the scent of the guy waiting in line behind you, the lines etched into the pavement, the scratches on a car door, the buttons on your shirt, the footprint of your shoes, the water droplets falling from the tap in your kitchen, the conversation of two strangers in the corridor, the sound of coins rattling in your pocket, the roughness of one’s hands, the sturdiness of your chair, the backing vocals in a song playing on the radio, the softness of the keys on your keyboard, the pigmentation of your pen, the folded pages in a book, the profoundness of the rain, the consolation of new socks, the vivacity of the light from your lamp, the dust on top of your wardrobe, the humidity of the rain, the dead skin on your lips, the strand of hair that has fallen onto your clothes, the peeling skin around your cuticles and the solidity of the wind against your face.

It is only in words that we are truly able to comprehend the intricacy of our lives. It is only then that we are able to perceive the edifice of the minute details and the way in which they depict the smaller moments. It is only in words that we can foreground these details; it is only then that we can bring them into focus. This reminds me greatly of Kafka and the way he used detail to subdue everything.

Writing is about capturing and re-creating, about inventing and connecting. It is about reviving the small aspects of life that we choose to ignore. It is about projecting the intricacy of human interaction and the morsel of emotion that we sometimes find ourselves clinging to. Writing is about drawing attention to the stranger that held the door open for you, about the friend that offered you a piece of chocolate, and the covert simplicity of living. Although we as humans are complex, writing is a means of presenting and preserving ourselves in a way that is commendable; in a way that is comprehendible, in a way that inspires us to be better. Writing gives us something to aspire to, it provides us with a basis; it instigates progression. It allows us to capture our lives in a moment that will never exist again.

Limitations of the English Language.

The sound of heavy laughter filled the carriage; it was coming from a woman. There was something peculiar about the way that she laughed. It was profound. With every moment, the laughter traversed through her, emanating sorrow as if
 her only way to heal. She was laughing through melancholy, through pain; this laughter was surfacing from the abyss of her skin. I pondered but realised that I could not locate the words to depict the sound that I was hearing.

We Live Inside Glass Bottles.

Our bodies are like empty bottles.

As we grow up, they are filled with sand.

When we learn to think for ourselves, water is poured into the bottle.

The sand absorbs the water but there is still space in the bottle for something else.

We try to fill the bottle with stones, but they get stuck or they don’t fit. All we can do is shake the entire bottle to try and get them out.

This is just like life.
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