Writing Exercise
Ethan Freemantle | Creative Writing
Ethan Freemantle | Creative Writing
Flanking the bed lies the essence of myself. My loves and my wants. My fears and my hates. Every habit of mine shaping the space, like an exhibition for anyone brave enough to peer into my mind. Papers strewn like scattered thoughts before the emotional explosion of my guitar, trying to capture some of the light cast by those grooves in the vinyl disk, even if just for a moment.To be like those people, singing songs of longing over lost love, their sadness gifted to me by lovers longing for something all their own.
Here it all lies in the place where we sleep, only springing to life when the moon rises high. When the world’s all in bed, the bungalows' plain white walls flash with colour, some of the light spilling outside, as the room beats like the heart of the world. All the feelings and passion flowing out in the world, like a bluebird let loose to fly high with the owls.
Then as the sun comes back up, the room shifts once again. Back into hibernation, merely a gallery of myself. A monument to some kind of egomaniacal depression, too abstract for a single discernible meaning, set out like a lounge, the chairs taken up only by the last week's mess. The gathering of nobodies sitting down for a drink, all in the place where we sleep.
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