write for five minutes.

For some weird reason I felt inspired to write a song...

There is nothing I can do, nothing I can say, nothing I can bring that will make this a better day.
It is beyond my ability, and lost to my affinity, and I can’t help but feel like it has been infinity in this moment beyond my control.
How can I hope to help when I have no answer? Where is the truth in this sea of despair?
I am lost without a map, and there is nothing I can do, but pray.
It clings to me and drags me down and weighs upon me.
I am chained to the floor by my own expectations and if I had better sensation I would free myself of these unrealistic temptations.
 
I have so much to do. I know I need to get started, I know I need to keep going. I know I need to sit down and focus my eyes on this. I need to summon some kind of will from inside me, something that cares. Yes, something that cares. That's what's missing, I think.

40 seconds, it seems that's all that my insides wanted to say.
 
I find it kind of ironic that I am yet again in the midst of a bad migraine as I do this exercise. The migraine started after I saw flashes of J. He's trying to tell me something important, but I have yet to decipher what it is. That's when the headaches always start, but let me tell you, having a migraine in a bookstore is NOT fun. I tried to distract myself from the flashes, the throbbing pain, by reading a children's book called the "Magic Locket", but the Princess could've definitely been smarter and more efficient in planning her escape from the Evil witch's castle, I mean, the flying dragon said, "How can I return the favour for your kindness?" and she says, "Go get help, please." She should've thought," This lovely creature has WINGS, so maybe it can FLY me out of this tower, before the evil witch comes up to check on me". /rant
 
Beneath floor level, inside the iron grids of the drain, I could see items lodged or jammed into the spaces. Stuck there since the time they had been lost and seeming so at home though obviously alien to the drain. There was a hand operated sparking device for igniting a butane torch, I remembered losing it. And also remembered that I had not lost it but tossed it as it had finally failed. Its failure was suspect at the time as it was relatively new and could have been replaced with an older one after the plumbers had done some work years ago. I recalled that the plumber had been annoyed that I had called and asked him to return the one he had borrowed.

There was another item lodged in the grate. It was a more subtle mechanical device, small and familiar but at the same time I did not recognize it.
 
He nine year old frame easily slipped through the window, and carefully climbed down the lattice. The aroma of the Jasmine swept around her; the brisk chill of the autumn night pinched at her face. But her only thoughts were of the horse, the feel of his fur, his soft snort as he muzzled her.

Only two weeks remained before the equestrian entries. As her down encased body sprinted across the grey landscape, she just knew they were close to making it happen. She longed to be in the sunlight, taking the jumps, the feeling of flight so vivid in her mind that she could not sleep.

As she pushed open the barn door, she was greeted by a whinny of recognition.
 
The breeze caught her hair as if a feather, it whipped in all directions, tying the strands together into the little knots that only nature can make. She looked down the ally and into the distance staring into the shadows which began to consume her as she walked into the darkened ally, her heels clicking on the bricks with each step. This was not the type of venue in which lucy had imagined to meet up. She could feel a cold chill begin to creep up her spine and tug at the small hairs on the nape of her neck as she wandered deeper into the darkness. "cool it, there's nothing here." she whispered to her self as to not let the fear grasp her into it's clenches.

Damn, I type pretty slow >_<
 
He was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. He seemed very relaxed but not slumped. His long torso leaning into the back of the chair had a rigidity to it that spoke of the firmness of his muscles. Even while being still he maintained a hard edge that revealed his basic dichotomy. At the same time he was fully engaged and completely disinterested. His eyes wandered slowly across the table, taking in her long, smooth hands and arms, lolling over the way her t-shirt gripped her chest, the softness at the nape of her neck and the glisten her lip gloss gave to her mouth, which was moving as she spoke.
 
It was 4:45 in the afternoon. The sun was breathing its heat on the bench outside the bus depot. Standing at the bus stop outside in the warmth of a nice August day, Sarita looked at the cheap watch she bought at the corner store yesterday. It was a pink. She never had a pink watch before. She was the only one waiting at the stop. Only five minutes, and the bus would arrive. At 19, Sarita Day decided to leave home, the town she knew all her life, and go to college. It was 4:50 pm. The bus was here. Her day was come.
 
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All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
 
things like this bleed, seeping down the sheets, bleed it like a brain game, and rubbing down the heat. feel it on the soles of my feet, wet from the drain day, it's another rain day, tell me what? i don't like this play. up and down, same ol' shit. how do i ever handle it? proper, proper, like the tux of a doctor. break my teeth, i'll break you another.. jawline, feel fine.. do you even know my line? a quick perception, a blessed curse... high intuition like the slit up my skirt. i knew your kind, the type that breaks. wretched solidity, the kind that don't apologize for their mistake. it's not sweat off my back, no care about your heart attack. gettin' stuck on the F train, man fuck that F'n train... it's really tiring yanno? the kind of friend you mistake for a foe. manipulation, grade A asshole disease. wipe me of my sins, screaming please, god please... cause i only tried my best, so cut the negativity from the mound of my chest... aw, really? i don't fucking care. cause to be so honest, fuck your ethics, i only game to be fair.
 
I'm sitting, smoking a cigarette at my usual spot again. Menthols. It's midnight. I've had this strange feeling for the last twenty minutes that I am not alone. The owl that was always on the one side of the building has moved. Makes me wonder if it's not real, after all. A rustle over by the bushes again. I put out my cigarette on the bottom of seat. I think it might be time to leave before whoever, or whatever, decides to come out. Doors unlock. Keys in the ignition. Seatbelt on. Turn, and a rumble: I am off, into the night.
Thoughts echo in my head. Everything that has ever happened and will happen to me playing out as the lights blur by.
 
She caught her reflected face in the chrome, not distorted in reality but that fucking nose, those lips, Jesus God how she wanted to cut into them. She looked away toward the end of the room where a cadre of men cavorted. The taller, handsome one, she had caught his attention. He tried to hide it in his horseplay with his mates, showing his dominate standing with them. A laugh bubbled up deep inside her, it was funny how he played out his instinctual drama, thinking this was a good time. She looked away as causally as she had looked on, down to the piece of pie on the table before her. That warm piece of apple pie with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. That is what she had come in here for. It seemed so loving, so harmless.
 
I rose slightly after the sun today, and have been coloring my art project since. It looks nothing like the illuminated manuscript it is supposed to, unfortunately. Would that I had picked up art sooner, I may have been able to create something worth glancing at. I have discovered that I can draw curves very well - all of them are smooth, with delicate angles reminiscent of a curving river. Combining colors effectively is harder than I thought it would be; I'll have to ask my art teacher for suggestions, or my mother for ideas. I like how I colored the roses, red with subtle streaks of soft violet and traces of a darker purple; they look more powerful this way, I think. Hmph, five minutes already? I need to type more often.
 
In the darkness light refracted up from the shadows beneath t he surface of the water, luminesens swilling past the tails of the salmon beneath. Glen cut the engine and the launch drifted, quiet followed the last sputter of the motor. Rebecca cautioned with a whisper, "I think it is a bear, pulling pinks out of the mouth of the creek." we peered ahead into the darkness, there was certainly a big shape and lots of splashing. "It is a bear" she repeated urgently, " turn it around please" But glen let it drift, he had a penchant for sneaking up on animals. The rest of us kept still, not wanting to be weenies. Rebecca was highly agitated, feeling very alone and sure of her self in our nearness to doom. "Oh God" she prayed and we drifted closer to what was a very large boulder in the mouth of the creek.
 
Jack stared at the cold gray concrete wall, listening to the movements of the men in the other chamber. Their feet shuffled and deep voices muttered incoherently. It was nerve racking and he was anxious about his safety. Through the open door a slender man in a short jacket stepped with a look of malice on his face. Jack sprinted out the side door and onto a dark sidewalk with the maniac in hot pursuit. Jack knew he could not out run him so he headed for the highway where he stopped short, spun around and faced his attacker. The maniac charged him arms out stretched and Jack dropped to a crouch, thrusting his shoulder into the man's abdomen then quickly lifted and pivoted 180 degrees throwing him into the rushing traffic on the other side of the low barricade.
 
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She sat at her desk, fiddling with the pencil. Sitting by the window in a small apartment across from the bustling Orion City Diner, she whistled a tune while fiddling her pencil. The blank journal page was still on the table, waiting for her hands to mark it with a brilliant word, a stroke, an idea, a thought, a wonder. And it waited. She looked around the one bedroom apartment where all her life was stacked against the walls in a corner: one suitcase, a violin, and a teddy bear. Then she remembered why she left, and the page wasn't waiting anymore.
 
Funny, the OP is "on holiday" after he asked us to write for 5 minutes. Anyway, I'll do this the automatic way, wanna know for myself where it leads me. Alright...

Durmore, that's what the place is called. You might think it's somewhere in the States or in Britain, but it's actually somewhere in Romania. We were a bit slow, wanted to arrive late afternoon, but a few stops here and there and it sums up and you end up a few hours later at your destination. But at least the sea is wonderful. A chilling wind greets you the moment you get out of your car. One of those disappointments, not unlike the mini-breeze you encounter when you open the fridge at home, expecting the warmth of your favorite food. Everything is lined in darkness. Even the stars seem a bit fading tonight. A bit of glitter is hovering above the sea surface, gleaming here and there. And in the far corner of the beach you can hear a group giggling. Yes, it is a lonely beach. I see a lantern over there and something, a familarity connects me with the owner of the lantern.
 
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Twenty minutes a mile last year. Average, but not good enough. The pace is quickened and moving forward is essential. Prepare packs for extended conditioning. Barefoot wandering in the reeds, on the sand. Prepare for eventualities. The extension of opportunities and when to deny what's to come to me. Not too good, just too busy.

People, less of them. Less of the distractions. More simplicity at the cost of satisfying emotional needs. Again. Which goals are goals to meet, which are superfluous nonsense. The canopy's become half-barren and skeletal. Winter's charm, I believe. Life in a rain forest is the stuff of long-held ambitions. Another long distance thing is not in the cards. Remember, fucker, remember.

The sky's parting herself again. Welcome her warmth with open arms.
 
The filthy rain kept slashing against the window panes, blurring the view to what is usually a charming and sun-toasted, crispy beach. The whole scene is smudged in shades of gray. Everything is texture and no colors. And that sulky smell that seems to be creeping into the room, in every corner and gap, between the window sills, the doors or the creaking wooden floor. It reeks of the sunshines of past days, dried up and conserved in the cement outside of my petty walls and now dispatched to invade my hopes and wishes of summer. A smell can ruin everything.
 
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