You have the images, the music, the climax, and the ending all wrapped in a bow. But when it comes time to actually get that vision onto paper, this glass wall refracts your ideas into something that vaguely resembles them. It's a frustratingly-beautiful-pain-in-my-butt process.
We watch our cups and stare into the world. Both separate and part of it.
It wasn't that we couldn't cross the bridge. The bridge decided who crosses it.
She grabbed his arm and dragged him down the street. The crowds blurred until he only focused on his friend's enthusiasm.
I can ignore the nudges if warranted. My dreams, however, refuse to be suppressed.
Some thoughts on novelty, uncertainty, and transition.
"I had to trust in myself. I had to trust in nature. I had to trust that everything will work out." Her hands tightened around the walking stick. "That trust is what you'll need more than anything."
Life existed beyond the gilded city, the wall, and the forest.