| write about it: week 7 |

wow. week 7? I’m so committed it’s making me tear up. (: little do you know, there are actually a lot of things I do regularly on thursdays now. most of it has to do with the fact that I write in mostly the same way, in mostly the same place, mostly around the same time. one of my must-haves? a gigantic soda from the valero down the street. (I mean, come on.. 69 cents for any size?) so yes, I ran out this morning to get mine before I started writing.

I’ve been trying to loosen up my writing a little.. trying to steer away from the always strict, predictable style. this is going to be a free write at its rawest, because I feel like it. it’s unedited, possibly schizophrenically hard to follow, but honest. lower your expectations and preconceived notions please; it’ll help.

today’s free write comes courtesy of the thoughts that started rolling around in my head after rereading a small tidbit from a book I just finished – the alchemist – that was recommended by a dear friend of mine, and a quote by a wise man that reminds us that ultimately, all of writing is either about love or death. here’s to hoping that this ends better than it’s started.. cause I’ve gotten up and sat back down about fifteen times since I’ve started. yeah, you could say I’m having a hard time staying on task.

“This is what we call love,” the boy said, seeing that the wind was close to granting what he requested. ” When you are loved, you can do anything in creation. When you are loved, there’s no need at all the understand what’s happening, because everything happens within you, and even men can turn themselves into the wind. As long as the wind helps, of course.” –the alchemist

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Heart hit ground, when her ribcage and iron will was supposed to be keeping it safe. She was unready, unsure, and slightly terrified. Lip-biting, hair-twisting, distracted but so focused on his face so close to hers. Smooth lines, and suddenly she was lost. The concentration etched so firmly in the lines on her forehead melted, but it took her resolve with it. She wasn’t sure if she was still standing, still breathing, still talking? Words were slipping between pursed lips and a clenched jaw, and she was powerless to stop them. She could barely hear them, but her cheeks flushed anyways, sure she was being foolish. Again. And there, a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth. She grasped at her control and yanked on it hard, reiging in her no-longer trustworthy mouth just in time to feel his lips brush hers. Lips to heart, she fell again, harder still. Walls she’d so carefully built around her heart began crumbling, the stillness in his eyes a wrecking ball, his hand on her neck stripping it away brick by pathetic brick. Involuntarily breathing harder, feeling faint, losing touch with sounds of the world around her. Another brush of the lips, and he wrapped his arms around her so tight, too tight, not tight enough, she didn’t know — didn’t care. Eyes wide open, and she tried to shut them tight, nose scrunching with her last flimsy attempt at composing herself. He let her go, and she thought she’d made it, held on to a tiny shred of self-preservation, and then his eyes found hers. His hand found the oversensitive line of her jaw, and she didn’t know which was taking her heart captive — the sweet way he told her he loved her, or the untamed, unhinged, raw emotion not even trying to hide in his deep, dark eyes — but she knew, with a final grasp at solidarity, that he’d wrecked her. And somehow she didn’t mind.

time’s up. I’m satisfied. you?