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A bed and a bookcase, and a small writing desk.
A doll and a sock, and a bit of a mess.
Through the window, the sunlight is just coming up,
But the nightlight’s still on, illuminating a cup.
The cup is half full, or half empty, or neither.
And the milk in it is old, a disgusting creature.
The clock on the wall watches. It ticks and it tocks.
And at the small, narrow door, there are three quiet knocks.
No one replies. Not a voice shouts, “Come in!”
And the outsider waits, listens closer. No noise from within.
There is not a sound besides the ticking wall clock.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Not a bated breath, not a whisper of life.
Not a sigh of contentment, not the chink of a knife.
So they push at the door, but it seems to be jammed.
They’ve their heart in their mouth and their nerves in their hands.
They push even harder, panic rising in their soul.
For locked out of the room, they are out of control.
And they shout and they scream the name of the child
But there’s no sound from within, and their heart’s going wild.
Finally, the door moves and they fall against it hard,
And open it’s thrown with the weight of their guard.
Adrenaline filled, they look to the bed
And stare in horror as they see their own head.
The outsider looks into their own glazed eyes,
And they see their own face that has already died.
And after such a wretched, sorrowful sight,
The outsider leaves. And the outsider smiles.
– By Bethany Morledge.
Faced with a blank page you have two options. The first, and by far the easiest (if also the dullest), is to sit and stare at it. You can think all you want, but if the voice in your head isn’t transferring to words on paper, what good is it going to do? You can watch the white and wait for something to happen, but if your fingers don’t start forming words, then nothing is ever going to happen. You will simply watch and wait forever.
The thing is, things will only start happening when you make the first move. Ripples in water will only occur when something touches it. Reactions only happen when there is an action already made.
So, unless you want to spend the rest of your existence waiting for something to happen that never will, the second option is what you should go for. You can start writing. It doesn’t matter what. It doesn’t matter if every single word that appears on the paper is complete nonsense.
Words should bubble from your imagination and seep into your mind, where they proceed to leak into your brain and drip through the veins in your arm right to your fingertips. From there, they should flow through the pen and into the ink, transforming into beautiful patterns and pictures that become: your writing.
And before you know it, the page is not blank. It is not vicious white, taunting you with its snowy complexion. Instead, it is positively brimming with fragments of your mind. The page is bursting with your creativity, and you can sit back, breathe it in, and think this is my world.
This is Earth. You and I are from the same Earth, but we are not of the same world. We share the same planet, but we live it different ways. We might not have the same culture or customs. We might not eat the same foods or tell the same stories, yet maybe we live in the same village. Maybe we have lived in the same village our entire lives and mixed with the same people as each other, but we’re still from different worlds. We still see our own worlds differently.
There are no two worlds exactly the same. Every person – every single human life, even those who are remembered by no one, has their own world. So does every animal and tree and flower. Some people have more than one world within them, so they need to find some way of getting it out of there system. Thus, the arts are born.
Every single book is its own world. Even if the setting is the exact same place that you grew up, right down to the flowery wallpaper, the pages still know things that you do not. You will see it from a new perspective – through a character’s eyes or a bird’s eye view.
And really, when it comes down to it, that’s what worlds are all about: perspectives. If everyone saw everything from exactly the same perspective, we would all be the same person. So, it’s not that the people make the worlds; it’s that the worlds make us.
That is why stories are so important. Every story we hear, read or watch, sinks into our membranes and becomes part of us. We breathe stories. Stories seep through our beings and, sometimes, they take over. Every aspect of life is a story. And every aspect of a story is life.