October 12th

Writing is a piece of mind

I've seemed to come to the conclusion that writing is a piece of mind. Every written work - rather it be a sentence or novel, one of your own or copied down - is part of human emotion. 

Not all the time am I aware of what or why my writings come out the way they do. However, I know it reflects how I felt when I was putting words on paper. 

Here, in retrospect, I don't know why I wrote this, but know it stems from how I was feeling. The first 4 sentences in bold are part of a finish the story book I got, so thus, they aren't my writing.

Piece of Mind

Perhaps it was a dream, she thought. Perhaps if she pinched herself, she would wake up. But she didn't want to wake up. She want ed to stay in this dream world were bliss overran ignorance, & the angels could tell the truth while lying at the same time. She loved it here. A world full of decay & growth, of symmetry & abstractness, of presence & excursion. Two wrongs are met to meet two rights. Wicked fun & holy boredom. Here, she could be anything at any time & anywhere. There were no boundaries.

She woke up. A sad quiver of motion in her eyes. Then tears & pearls. She was sick & dying now. Her mind made an image, a dream, of what it really wanted. She woke up that night, restless & relentless. But she could feel herself that going back to sleep. Not like before, however. She was to fall asleep & not wake up. It's not what she wanted.

She wanted what she had just prior; her dreams.

Written October 11th