Bluebirds and Birch trees

 I'm running on cookie power. Cookie power and music, and this mornings coffee. Talking books and stories, with sailing ships or sealing wax. No cabbages, but possibly Kings.  A friend of mine and I are similar in many ways. Though our thoughts on our stories is nearly identical.  My good friend Bronze, at the  the Rambling Line . Who has an amazing blog and writing talent by the way.  We run on milk and cookies along with the virtual insanity of creativity. We know no bounds. Nor do we see any, hence why we don't know them. See you when we see you! If at all. You really never know where we'll end up.

 To be told you are special, is something that can make your heart lurch or dance. It is different coming from someone who is not family, or you haven't known them for very long.  To be told you have a gift. Can make you wonder. As it did me.  But during that moment I realized one simple thing. I cannot see myself as others do.  I don't see myself with others because I'm unable to. I don't hear my own voice the same way, or think of my art or writings to ramblings in the same light. Because I am muddling it all up in my mind with other thoughts that come in but are unspoken.  However, there are people that do. There are people now who have told me something so simple that it has made me rethink so much. Because I over-complicate, I do know that. Almost as if I love to make them complicated, when in reality I don't need too, or in fact want too.  "You've got something in you girl!" That is all it took! That's all I needed that night. That...

A number of smaller things have happened, though none the less intriguing. Though I may be unable to remember what they all were exactly, on the days they might have happened, I am left with the feeling or the sense of what they were. A flower bud trapped in the hair from a bush. A dance in song with the Lord during worship. A sense of belonging and the feeling of friendship, from those who genuinely want to know you.  The rush of feeling the urge to write again. And listening this time. Beginning to understand my own self and my own writing, or lack thereof.  Last November I wrote almost 28,000 words of what I attempted to make into a romance novel. I however was vastly unsuccessful. Whether it be poor beginning planning, or simply how it was supposed to turn out for it being year one in NaNoWriMo.  I don't think the first draft was useless, I just most likely wont end up doing a lot with it now that I have begun again, and it is going the way I wished it to be. I wil...

It feels so real even though it's far. The roll of distancing thunder. The roll of the waves of rain. Thundering. Pounding even. The sounds that life brings. All the rolling crashing booming shaking thunder. It just feels so real. Was this all a dream? No. It was real. Those she had talked to and written to were real. Their stories were full, both of grace and of sadness. But life is like a piano, both black and white to make music. And that is what this was, and is. Her fellows, her friends, the chaps that talk till the late night hours, and morning sunrises. The ones who share dreams and hopes, to laugh and hope with. To find someone to fit along your piece and to share in a piece of the puzzle that we all ultimately form. And the world we ourselves have brought together. For we are the world builders. And we are dreamers. We are lovers. And we are warriors. We share dragons and tales of long and old forgotten times. To shake away the dusts of time that have covered the beautif...