Guardian Angel


Sometimes, all she had to do was wish for it. Wish for it and think about it and it would happen.

Just look at Billy sprawled on the pavement near her. Thank you my guardian angel, she thought. Now he’d obviously think twice about yanking any little girl’s pigtails. If he ever got up again, that is.

For some reason, it looked to her as if Billy would now forever be asleep.

Oh, well. Good riddance. He had begun to annoy her a lot.

With that, she skipped on towards home, looking forward to her spaghetti supper that her mom had promised her.

The Queen


The young Queen surveyed her guests contentedly. The ball was well underway. The musicians had struck up a faster tune and the dancing party had increased. She could hear the tinkling laughter and the clinking chalices. Feet shuffled  daintily as their owners twirled their partners.

The Queen

Occasionally, they would look over at her and give a small bow. At this, she would smile back graciously and give a small nod in acknowledgement.

The merriment wouldn’t end until dinner was served and it was almost time for the feast to begin. She was waiting for the gong to sound to descend and take her place at the head of the table. Her guests would then follow suit according to their positions.

She suddenly noticed a movement in the far corner. Sir Alex! He was cutting through the throng and seemed to be headed straight towards her. Her heart skipped a beat. He was too handsome and the Queen was very fond of him.

“Now, what did we talk about, Quinn?” he asked her.

“Oh, but daddy. I want to join the party. Please?” she tried to plead with him once more.

“My princess, you may, but when you’re a bit older,” said he, while kissing the top of her forehead.

With that, he scooped Quinn in her arms and carried her upstairs to her room to put the Queen to bed.

***

Image Source: “Little Girl Looking Downstairs at Christmas Party”

McCall’s, December 1964; oil on board, 10 x 10 ½ in.; Collection of George Lucas

http://americanart.si.edu/exhibitions/online/tellingstories/

Words


Words.

My best friend. My worst enemy. I love them. I hate them.

There is no escape.

I can use them to express myself. Anything I want to say; everything I want to say. So cathartic. So helpful. So magical. They become the antidote, helping me suck the poison out of my veins, letting me breath anew.

Once they are out though, the toothpaste does not go back into the tube. Even if no one else reads them, I give full form to ideas that were only half-baked. Then, there is no forgetting.

There is no escape.

Scatterbrain


“Our life is what our thoughts make it.”

~Marcus Aurelius

So that makes it crappy, confusing and random?

Ugh.

Sometimes, I wish I could draw. Then, my life would have been artsy. Instead of sitting in front of a blank monitor screen or scrolling mindlessly through “funnies”, I could take up the pencil and doodle out my thoughts.

Words are my only crutch to make sense of the world, though. But the letters seem to have taken root in my brain, deep, refusing to bear fruit. So all I have are vines and tangles; crap that I’m unable to cut through.

Also, not everyone has the balls to call themselves an artist unless they have got the goods to back it up. But every other person seems to be a writer now.

I need to stop being such a scatterbrain…

No More


Paul Westerberg says:

Although, my experience when I’ve been depressed, not only am I too depressed to sit down and write a song, I’m too depressed to pick up my feet. So if you can at least write about it, you’re halfway away from it.

I am not depressed but I don’t even want to think about writing what’s on my mind right now. Writing is definitely cathartic, but getting the words on the screen is hard.

You have to think about whatever situation is bothering you. Analyse it from different angles. Find the best one to explain it to your reader (with reference to writing on a blog). Find the angle that is consistent with the train of thought in your head. Have good grammar. No spelling errors. Make it presentable.

And it all goes downhill from here.

Catharsis aside, it just becomes another project that you can’t do. Can’t finish. A constant reminder of one more thing that you suck at. One more thing to fail at.

No more writing.

D. Squat, Reporting For Duty


My name is Squat. Diddly Squat and that’s all you’ll be writing about today in your personal blog. That’s all you have today to write about in your personal blog.

What did you think, huh? That you would never run out of ideas? That having a blog meant that you would be able to write regularly? That you would write regularly, even?

Oh, dear, dear, dear! I thought you would have learned something by now. You have spent a whole year writing on this platform. In fact – and forgive me for pointing this out, my love, but someone has to give you a reality check! – you have spent a whole year trying to write. So you should be well-aware of the state where there are no ideas in that pea-brain of yours.

But I’m sure even that pea-brain of yours remembers this. There have been loads of instances when you didn’t have even one-tenth of an idea to scribble two sentences together and make a post. So you often resorted to quoting or not posting anything. I think the latter happened often.

And you have, at your disposal, the perfect excuse: you were busy in other aspects of your life.

Ha!

It is time to face the music, my friend. Madstickynotes is one year old now. It deserves a bit more attention than you’re currently giving it. It has been there for you and now, you need to step it up a bit as well. All those hits, followers, comments, likes – they all show you that you can do this. It is time that you stop finding excuses.

It is time that you took this seriously. Your aim was to start writing creatively again like you used to. You’ve put it off long enough. Get to it ASAP.

The time is now, my dear.

And don’t make me come back here. Or else.

Diddly Squat out.