Random Rules, For Writing, 1

Basic rules for writing # 1(always for the subject)

Sitting around waiting for a classical and inspirational disc to burn. Wasting moments looking out there, into space.

Once a day I will share some rules for becoming a writer, a man, a citizen, a human, and I’ve grown on this path alone; being human is never easy without a sensei.

I see particles that most cannot. This isn’t a rare mutation of the human cognition. I believe everybody sees with the same eyes. But for now, I’m done talking about my mind for a few years as a form of creative indulgence. Going to sketch the poetry of the real. The phone on chords within fingers of thoughts that turn within a spinning web and travel by the way of light to the dot of consciousness. I’m Going to write spontaneous about memories and the lake that has been sucked up into the clouds. Sailboats above water and the moon changing the weight of the earth. The size of the earth isn’t understood in relation to the sun. The size of the universe of the ant is relative to this ancient society, and the planets and time, the size of time is not understood by the mass that may cause our collapse. This is exciting and what was once terrifying is now exhilarating;  This means there is still youth to wander the abyss of the badlands of the fading horizon. This means there’s still time to grow, to evolve, to become as steady as the winter that will never be wished away.

Rule 1: Consume your anxiety. Become the whispers. Forget about being, only be, and write down what you see, what others often do not, and what at times is only a particle that if not written down you too will misplace. Write to figure out what your heart is, digest your losses, and imagine your possible lives on possible worlds. Write about a single rock. Write about a perfect circle that makes up a bubble, creating a planet within a planet and surrounds the melting pink flowers of a lone tree by the lake on a hill. Write about what is there, but what isn’t seen, and not because it lacks beauty, but because often enough it’s the beauty and the grotesque that are in plain sight but invisible to the eyes of those who aren’t the human construction of what is, and will, always be known as the poet and the writer and the artist, all scholars, who like all, will in time, die.

Next: Laughter and forgetting about your trivial fear. 

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