This thing between my lungs is making me so tired.
I'm trying to write short stories.
I'm trying to find inspiration in little things and little feelings. I don't remember if I slept last night because I was thinking of storylines. They come to me when I'm half asleep. They come to me when I'm inbetween consciousness. I've been writing down a few sentences and paragraphs here and there. Perhaps one day they will grow into something novel-worthy. I have a few to work from. I have a few stort stories and scripts I've written months/years ago that I will revisit.
One of my favorite short stories I've ever written was about a man and the love he has for his woman. It takes place in their bed in the middle of the night. Perhaps he had never fallen asleep, perhaps it was just a moment of thought as he turned over in his bed, perhaps his thinking about her was keeping him awake all night. He talks about her body. Her eyes. Her thoughts. Her mind and how he cannot read it. How much he loves her and how unsure he is that it is not mutual. He talks about her in that moment, asleep. Dreaming and breathing. The image of the bedsheets over her body, as if they were breathing too. And about holding her, running his hands over the indents in her back from where her wings used to be.
...I think my mother was the only person I showed it to.
And she didn't get it.
"What wings? Huh?"
...It's cause she was an angel mom. Or at least he saw her as his angel... get it? It's poetic.
Ah forget it.
And if there were a soundtrack for my unfinished short story, it would be this:
(thank you Ehren for the song)
=)
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