Blinding

My curtain hangs crooked and loose in the center of a large and wide window pane. Its lateral sides not stretched far and wide for absolute shade - a design neither intentional, nor intelligibly fashioned. In the narrow passages, while indulging in the dreams of my slumber, the sun's bickering light tightly passing through. On a daily basis, it peeks to color my pale face yellow. I never wake to be blinded by its immensely insurmountable radiance, however.

Eyes firmly shut from reality, I await only the howl from downstairs - of my sister, at the top of her lungs, calling out my name. The familiar resonating cry of urgency rings me wake from dawn. Then I continue my journey to a more distant world. Standing lost, I shudder the first few steps out my door. It takes a few moments before sobering up from my daily recurring stupor, a self-inflicted sleep-induced coma. An overdose of it.

Once again acquainted with the arcane reality, I wrap myself around the blanket of safety, as if going back (to sleep). Awake, I ensconce myself in the niche of family: my only remnant of haven. As to events of daily life, I play the blind role, mute my hearing and tie my own tongue in avoidance of it. Then half the day ends; and I once again indulge in the dreams of my slumber while the star up above gleams its hopeful eye onto mine.

Short Story Menace

When an idea for a possible short story masterpiece enters my mind, my heart starts thumping fast; as though in hot pursuit of something fulfilling yet incredibly tantalizing. I seem to have an apt for following thoughts that flow like a river across an uncharted territory - one I can claim my own genius. Often, I'd escape reality and join the adventures of my own creation.

Ask me what they are, and I'd gladly paint them as extravagantly as I could. I will stutter. I will stop for a while. Then with apparent diligence, draw the gist out flat on the table sooner or later. My mind wanders in the virtual recesses of my cave-dwelling soul just to keep me amused with the stories it brings back to my consciousness. It tells it so well, I would have a hard time falling asleep at night, already itching to put them down on paper.

My imaginative introductory momentum, unfortunately, remains within the confines of my memory, unable to extend itself out any further. Perhaps, admittedly, I lack the skills in the creative writing sphere. My long awaiting queue of stories to write and tell are rusting even before they materialize for my eyes to reread and others to find inspiration from.