From the Heart
Blue is the sky from my window today
Birds high in the sky, maybe flying away
A fluffy white cloud, a slither of white
I’ve a feeling today might just be alright
This time of year you just never can tell
Last days of sunshine, a gift from a spell
Squirrels jumping, on leaves on the floor
Today is for playing, there’s not many more
Laying in bed in the early hours, I felt a pressure on the end of the bed, something touched my foot. I didn’t look, l wanted to, but know through past experience nothing is there. The longer I keep my eyes closed and just lay there, the longer it lasts.
Last year when this happened the pressure moved around for a while, it felt similar to a cat padding through the covers. This was shortly after I lost my cat and I wondered at the time if it was my Eris coming to tell me she was okay.
I don’t know what this pressure thing is but do know it has only happened in the last couple of years. I had two huge bereavements in 2014 that rocked my world. This activity has only happened since that time.
It doesn’t happen when I’m wide awake but also I know I’m not asleep, I’m in that in between state on just waking. I think it is a message from someone. Last night it felt like someone sat on the end of the bed, gently brushing against my feet as they did.
I know this would terrify some people but I find it comforting. I don’t say anything at the time as I explained as I don’t want it to end, so I thought I’d share it as a confirmation of the experience.
Does anyone else have similar things happen to them. Is it our traumatised minds or something else, something we don’t really understand.
Creativity is wonderful and something in which we can immerse ourselves. When we create something, we also create something else inside, joy, fulfilment and a bright light that cannot be put out.
Writing, painting, dancing, music can all bring a deep and wonderful feeling of joy and contentment. When we sit back alone at the end of the day and look fondly at something we have created and find happiness in that, despite no one else seeing or experiencing it, that is real creativity. Like a mother looking at her child and knowing she has created something truly special.
We create first and foremost for ourselves and the feeling it gives us to immerse ourselves and dance with our creative minds. We might share what we produce with friends and family, who are happy that we have found a creative outlet, enjoy and admire what they see. That they find enjoyment in our work will of course make us happy but that is not the reason we create.
When we share our work further afield for example through our blogs, we are at risk of getting caught up in producing something for others, will they like what we have done, how can we adapt it so everyone will like it. Is the end product still the same when we share it universally as it would be if we kept it to ourselves.
Is it then really our work or the work we do for others, is this how we loose our creative spark? Will we find as much joy as in the reward of our own creations when we think first how others will interpret, see experience. Is this really creativity as its natural state?
I have been pondering on this, so I thought I would get it out and see what you think. I’m interested in the thoughts of my friends this community. Of course if you don’t respond I will know that my piece on creativity is rubbish 😉
Are we awake right now, living in the minute
or we just dreaming, just thinking we’re in it
is all of this an illusion, created by our minds
could it be we are asleep, not even humankind.
Is the planet our creation, but not really here
just all experiencing the dream, so very clear
And if that is the case, oh, where in hell are we
are we just a stream of thought, nothing else can see.
Always ask the question why,
my grandfather said to me.
He gave me a diary and a pen,
the words inscribed to see.
He was a man of intellect,
he was a man of vision.
Reading at his writing desk,
not watching television.
We used to sit and talk for hours,
exploring many things.
Why the world was round,
what literature meant to him.
He taught me to philosophise,
to think a little more.
He instilled the trait in me,
keep asking until I’m sure.
It will take so many lifetimes,
there’s multitudes to learn.
Not leaving doubts unanswered,
a candle I have to burn.
Every puzzle has a final piece,
just to slot in place to see.
Always ask the question why,
my grandfather said to me.
Your life is just an illusion, you will realise it one day
masquerade without the ball, why care what others say
the mask you wear to cover up, does not fit your face
with a semblance of dignity, you’d get out of this race.
Why do you hide your true self, behind this gross facade
keeping this act ongoing, must be so incredibly hard
the veil in which you stand behind, is wearing very thin
I suggest you face reality and let you real friends in.
When we give birth to something, we create something beautiful. Ideas are born into the world and need to be nurtured to grow and reach their full potential.
~ Liza
So your mind is full of random words,
weird sentences in parts.
You want to get it down somehow,
but don’t know where to start.
So you want to be a writer,
maybe write that book one day.
Writers, write you know not talk,
that is all that I can say.
So you have read all the classics,
although your not too sure.
Plan to read more before you write,
as ideas you want to store.
You want to write a blockbuster,
that would work as a screenplay.
Writers, write you know not talk,
that is all that I can say.
Ideas pop into your mind,
but you never jot them down.
and then they pop right out again,
they are nowhere to be found.
Your looking for inspiration,
until then plan is vague.
Writers, write you know not talk,
that is all that I can say.
Your going to buy some post it notes,
to capture all your dreams.
Leave some paper by your bed,
you won’t be needing reams.
Your going to write tomorrow,
or maybe the next day.
Writers, write you know not talk,
that is all that I can say.
You worry about what others will think,
your not good at criticism.
You’ll keep your writing to yourself,
until you find your rhythm.
Then you’ll emerge a great writer,
it’s what the critics will say.
Writers, write you know not talk,
that is all that I can say.
Oh, I say, you have a visitor, he is stripy I can see
How kind of you to be so sweet for that little bee
I suppose with summer ending, choices now are few
It’s very sweet he stopped to sup upon a girl like you
Looking out my window, it is so clear that you are there,
whipping the trees like custard, a tile flying in the air.
birds have flown to outwit you, or hiding in the trees,
hard rain washing windows, though it’s difficult to see.
Who knew a storm was coming, did the weatherman lie,
did you sneak up from nowhere, to take us by surprise.
Bang, and the bin fell over, the garbage is doing a dance
will you be gone by lunchtime, is there the slightest chance?
lizalizaskysaregrey 