Thoughts from the back of a notebook, from beneath the Game of Thrones castle, from beneath a statue in Croatia, from an airport in the UK, from a lake in Slovenia.
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Days spent walking, nights spent bitter, moments spent thinking about the girl from the airplane…a long short story or a short novela, you decide. Some dark tale, written in a little black notebook while backpacking and hitch hiking through Croatia and Slovenia. Stories of walking and isolation and the ceaseless burden of darkness weighing about the neck of a boy who has seen too much.
I stay up late and watch movies, just to feel something. My guilty pleasures are broken characters, lost loves, and small hopes, rolled into an hour and a half of an emotional roller coaster
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I breathe in the velvet smooth of the dark until it consumes me, fills me up in endless shades of cool.
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I stood beneath a sky so dark it broke against my bones in waves of midnight flowers. The air pressed against my skin as a low rumble of thunder rolled across the wasteland of my heart. Inside of the storm was the lifeless beating of a broken heart.
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In the darkness I trail my hand along soft walls, brushed smooth with striking colors, muted by twilight. Each step brings me closer to you, to the memories left cold and aching in my head. I wander into the darkness, letting the cool shadow press against my tired flesh.
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I sat in the grass, feeling the sun touch my skin with warm fingers. It reminded me of you.
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My skin tastes like salt. I can still feel the ocean kissing me as I drift beneath it’s surface. It breathes in my veins, rocks my heart with the swell of the waves. I stare into your eyes and think of home, of those last few seconds of air pounding angrily at my chest.
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We all live in a tangled world, with tangled lives and tangles memories, tangled up in worries thick with the tangles of useless things. These knots crush against my chest with a fervor matched by malevolent movie villains.
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Epic sunrise shots and Instagram stories never start from the summit. They start with waking up, they start with sweat and burning muscles, they start with late nights and cold hangs on the side of mountains, they start with passion and high expectations...
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I wait for broken sunsets and broken smiles to take me home. I wait for colors to fight each other on the darkened horizon. I wait for the cool of evening when the world is bathed in shadow. I wait for a moment alone.
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Sunlight drifted like cobwebs in the air, filtering through the green of living things. It turned the forest floor into a patchwork of golden light, setting the ferns aglow.
I woke up with the sun, when the air was still cold enough to send shivers up my spine.
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We are infatuated with white noise, we let it fill our lives with static so we don't have to face the silence.
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Duty is heavier than a mountain, death lighter than a feather...
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Some moments, when snow is filtering down from the sky, and the cold is bitter beyond brick walls, you meet up with friends for photo shoots in Troy coffee shops.
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Swinging in my hammock beneath patches of stars, a cool breeze rushes in from the sea, rolling in a haze of patchy cloud over my head. The stars flit in and out of existence through the swaying palms, unhappy that I won’t come up to play.
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Some days I like to write about mountains, photography, and the rising sun, and other days I like to let you into the other side of what I do, and the creative short stories I write and rarely share.
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It's hard finding creativity scrolling through Instagram when all you see are photos of people getting drunk, and the brunch someone had that morning, but finding a way to correctly use social media can boost your desire to create.
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When I write a story, I usually start with an idea in mind, a daydream that had been playing over and over in my mind until my fingers can't hold back anymore. I have at least one part of the story planned out, one scene that I'm basing the entire structure off of, and I build from there.
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