Below are my own literary endeavors, I hope you enjoy them!
"Blank Pages"
The sound of rain against the windshield and its wipers going back and forth, forth and back, played a low symphonic melody to her daydream. It was a long day. Not a hard day, just a long one and now as she drove down the familiar road home, she just thought, barely aware or even conscious of where she was headed. She let her thoughts and the road guide her to a place other than where she was. She looked forward to going home, to take a nice hot bath, curl up in bed in her favorite pajamas, and reading a book she's twice read and finished. Her mind drifted and wandered off as she thought about the events in her day. It was normal for her to come home each day winding down with a bath and a book. Strangely today, she felt and uncomfortable void, hollow and subtle in her mood, and for the first time, she felt alone. Every now and then she felt lonely, but it had never been this defined. She very much enjoyed her own company and basked in the peace of being content. She had learned early in life that she would have to pick up the cards life left for her and make do with the hand she was dealt. She found no use wasting time worrying over what she had no control and chose instead to focus on things much more important. Although there were a few things she longed for, she nevertheless, found a strong sense of pride in taking care of herself, and was grateful for the ability to support her acquired lifestyle. She loved her job, had a strong circle of friends, and maintained a level of self-respect that was noticed even by those just meeting her. Glancing at her life overall she was very pleased.
The tires of her SUV traveled up the inclined driveway and came to a slowing stop as they reached the garage. She took a moment to gather her bags and thoughts while she let the engine play a low hum. Finally turning off the vehicle, she climbed out and entered her home still hearing the low taps of the rain on the roof. Her heels made a soft clicks as they resounded off the hardwood kitchen floor while she placed her purse on the island, and approached to cabinet for a glass. After pouring herself some milk, and grabbing a handful of cookies, she walked upstairs to her room. Usually she would let the television fill the empty walls of her house, but this day she instead chose to play music. After exhausting the radio stations for options, she decided on one of her favorite CD’s as background. Thoughtlessly she went into the next room and began to run water for her bath. Against her earlier plans to sit and relax a while, she did not light candles as she normally would. She did however, add bubbles more for amusement than anything, and sang along to the music’s chorus. Oddly, she no longer felt like resting and was still pondering her earlier thoughts. After her bath she sat on her bed awhile, the previous anxiety lingering, and wondered how to suffice it. She would have read a book, but she wasn't ready to lie down just yet and was afraid if she tried that the restlessness wouldn't cease. Why now after so long had she begun to feel this way, and why did it leave her so empty? Her worries followed her down the stairs and she stopped abruptly at the mouth of her kitchen. Was it hunger? Without a second thought she searched the refrigerator for something quick and filling to make but found that, that wasn't what she wanted. She glanced at the T.V. but not a single hint of temptation flared as she wasn't interested in that either. Mindlessly she went further down the hall to her private home library. It was peaceful there, but it wasn't the lack of peace that compelled her as she could easily find such peace in any of the rooms in her home. She looked at the massive collection of books, all her absolute favorites, filling the enormous section of the house. Shelf, over shelf, over shelf, housed the many stories, and words that she adored. In the midst of her admiring her collection, her eyes wandered to a shelf she had forgotten she had added. She knew the works that adorned it much better than any others, because they were the works of her own mind. It was mainly a collection of short stories and poems that she had composed and kept over the years, but it was merely a hobby of hers to write, not something she could make a living out of. Once, she tried to write a novel that may have been successful, but only for the lack of confidence, not inspiration did it remain a mere attempt. She found herself curiously drawn to the shelf and fingered the spines and edges of her previous thoughts, and daydreams that she dared to put on paper. She hadn't written in a while, not because she was too busy, but she lacked the inspiration of emotion. She had no anger to release, or excitement to express. Her eyes found the notebook before her fingers, and she pulled it down from the place it sat. She leafed through the pages that held the intimate thoughts and ambitions dreams of a younger her. She found herself face to face with the once felt emotions of fear, happiness, insecurity, and excitement she had once experienced. Her mouth drew upward with laughter at the mistakes she made, and her eyes got teary reliving the moments of hurt. She flipped through the numerous love letters she received in response to the ones she had given, and remembered the ways she would pour her heart out, expressing the love she had in words and poems. As she realized the passion she had as a young woman for her writing and love itself, she recognized the courage it took to be that way, so expressing and open. She had made herself vulnerable each time she put her emotions on paper whether for self expression, or for the purpose of letting someone else know how she felt. Had she become a coward now that she no longer dared to be so vulnerable? She never recognized the consequences of such vulnerability until she got much older and couldn't stand the idea of losing what was important. The more aware she became of possible rejection, the more the feared it. The comfort she found in expressing herself through writing became hunted by worries and apprehensions that eventually caused her to stop. She let self doubt hinder her and though she got older and was very much successful, she lived a safe life. She accepted what came her way without question and handled whatever life threw at her. She was well off for a 26 year old doctor, but had nothing to look forward to, no one to share her success with, and nothing but the stories and fairly tales of others to keep her company. She had wanted so much out of life, and had received the bulk of it, yet she found that she was lacking something. The emptiness she pondered was very much alive and as the realization sank in, so did the feelings of failure and unhappiness. She wasn't living her life; she merely existed, allowing whatever came along be as it may. Momentarily, anger replaced the sadness as she recognized all the things she had lost in the process of playing it safe. All the unanswered questions and experiences she was never apart of. All the nights she wouldn't have had to spend alone if she was brave enough to let someone give the love to her she was afraid to give. She was angry at all the happiness she had stolen from underneath herself, her own worst enemy, in place of all the things she tried to protect herself from. She knew she had no one to blame but herself. And now she wept. A vast stream of emotions continued to surge upon her, compelling her to act in a way she hadn't in a long time. With tears in her eyes and frustration in her heart, she let all the hurt, anguish, and disappointment flow from their hidden places, through her fingers, and in between the lines of her notebook paper. Along with her inhibitions, she let go all her fears and embraced her desires to dream, to live, and to love again. She looked forward to taking the second chance at all the things she had let pass by, and dared to set new goals with no boundaries or limitations. She was finally able to appreciate herself and celebrate the life she had created out of the material given. On and on she wrote, liberating herself, recreating herself, until the tapping of the rain became a soft pour, a low hum, a slow drip…
The tires of her SUV traveled up the inclined driveway and came to a slowing stop as they reached the garage. She took a moment to gather her bags and thoughts while she let the engine play a low hum. Finally turning off the vehicle, she climbed out and entered her home still hearing the low taps of the rain on the roof. Her heels made a soft clicks as they resounded off the hardwood kitchen floor while she placed her purse on the island, and approached to cabinet for a glass. After pouring herself some milk, and grabbing a handful of cookies, she walked upstairs to her room. Usually she would let the television fill the empty walls of her house, but this day she instead chose to play music. After exhausting the radio stations for options, she decided on one of her favorite CD’s as background. Thoughtlessly she went into the next room and began to run water for her bath. Against her earlier plans to sit and relax a while, she did not light candles as she normally would. She did however, add bubbles more for amusement than anything, and sang along to the music’s chorus. Oddly, she no longer felt like resting and was still pondering her earlier thoughts. After her bath she sat on her bed awhile, the previous anxiety lingering, and wondered how to suffice it. She would have read a book, but she wasn't ready to lie down just yet and was afraid if she tried that the restlessness wouldn't cease. Why now after so long had she begun to feel this way, and why did it leave her so empty? Her worries followed her down the stairs and she stopped abruptly at the mouth of her kitchen. Was it hunger? Without a second thought she searched the refrigerator for something quick and filling to make but found that, that wasn't what she wanted. She glanced at the T.V. but not a single hint of temptation flared as she wasn't interested in that either. Mindlessly she went further down the hall to her private home library. It was peaceful there, but it wasn't the lack of peace that compelled her as she could easily find such peace in any of the rooms in her home. She looked at the massive collection of books, all her absolute favorites, filling the enormous section of the house. Shelf, over shelf, over shelf, housed the many stories, and words that she adored. In the midst of her admiring her collection, her eyes wandered to a shelf she had forgotten she had added. She knew the works that adorned it much better than any others, because they were the works of her own mind. It was mainly a collection of short stories and poems that she had composed and kept over the years, but it was merely a hobby of hers to write, not something she could make a living out of. Once, she tried to write a novel that may have been successful, but only for the lack of confidence, not inspiration did it remain a mere attempt. She found herself curiously drawn to the shelf and fingered the spines and edges of her previous thoughts, and daydreams that she dared to put on paper. She hadn't written in a while, not because she was too busy, but she lacked the inspiration of emotion. She had no anger to release, or excitement to express. Her eyes found the notebook before her fingers, and she pulled it down from the place it sat. She leafed through the pages that held the intimate thoughts and ambitions dreams of a younger her. She found herself face to face with the once felt emotions of fear, happiness, insecurity, and excitement she had once experienced. Her mouth drew upward with laughter at the mistakes she made, and her eyes got teary reliving the moments of hurt. She flipped through the numerous love letters she received in response to the ones she had given, and remembered the ways she would pour her heart out, expressing the love she had in words and poems. As she realized the passion she had as a young woman for her writing and love itself, she recognized the courage it took to be that way, so expressing and open. She had made herself vulnerable each time she put her emotions on paper whether for self expression, or for the purpose of letting someone else know how she felt. Had she become a coward now that she no longer dared to be so vulnerable? She never recognized the consequences of such vulnerability until she got much older and couldn't stand the idea of losing what was important. The more aware she became of possible rejection, the more the feared it. The comfort she found in expressing herself through writing became hunted by worries and apprehensions that eventually caused her to stop. She let self doubt hinder her and though she got older and was very much successful, she lived a safe life. She accepted what came her way without question and handled whatever life threw at her. She was well off for a 26 year old doctor, but had nothing to look forward to, no one to share her success with, and nothing but the stories and fairly tales of others to keep her company. She had wanted so much out of life, and had received the bulk of it, yet she found that she was lacking something. The emptiness she pondered was very much alive and as the realization sank in, so did the feelings of failure and unhappiness. She wasn't living her life; she merely existed, allowing whatever came along be as it may. Momentarily, anger replaced the sadness as she recognized all the things she had lost in the process of playing it safe. All the unanswered questions and experiences she was never apart of. All the nights she wouldn't have had to spend alone if she was brave enough to let someone give the love to her she was afraid to give. She was angry at all the happiness she had stolen from underneath herself, her own worst enemy, in place of all the things she tried to protect herself from. She knew she had no one to blame but herself. And now she wept. A vast stream of emotions continued to surge upon her, compelling her to act in a way she hadn't in a long time. With tears in her eyes and frustration in her heart, she let all the hurt, anguish, and disappointment flow from their hidden places, through her fingers, and in between the lines of her notebook paper. Along with her inhibitions, she let go all her fears and embraced her desires to dream, to live, and to love again. She looked forward to taking the second chance at all the things she had let pass by, and dared to set new goals with no boundaries or limitations. She was finally able to appreciate herself and celebrate the life she had created out of the material given. On and on she wrote, liberating herself, recreating herself, until the tapping of the rain became a soft pour, a low hum, a slow drip…
