Mad Musings

     It’s a human right to be able to state your opinion but to do so also means to be subjected to a response, whether directly or indirectly. It’s the trade-off. Just as I sit to write this, I hesitate. I know putting any words out into the universe is cause for a rebuttal. It’s fine. Some words burn too brightly not to be said. If it constantly nags at you, then it must be said. So, I wrote this from my work desk around noon. Before bed, I listened to a new release from 5 Seconds of Summer called ‘Older.’ Immediately, it captured me. What a tender little tune. It was full of soul and brightness in the gloom. A romantic tragedy we all live. I see so much drama over stupid little things in this fandom I scarcely consider myself a part of it. This is another rant altogether, so I will stop at that. As for ‘Older,’ maybe it is just my romantic nature and affinity for the darker bits of life, but this song is very much a romantic take on the inevitable. We all will eventually die,

     The land of Andromeda was vast and reaching. Most cities in Andromeda were broken into threes. The innermost center being for Artessians and their families. Merchants often lived amongst them. The Artessians were heralded as nobles and, more often than not, leaders. They shared common traits such as pointed ears, tanned skin, dark smoldering eyes, and hair of burnt wood. They had an affinity for fire elements. This made them the most feared and revered race.      Next in the second tier of the cities was Airevian . Their elemental affinities were water and air. The knowledge wielders. They founded and ran a prestigious school for sorcerers at one time that slowly became a school for all. Their common traits were having pointed features, fair skin, light-colored eyes swirling with the life of the earth, and hair feather light and color variations of blonde to brown.      Finally, the outmost, Aesprea . These folks were steeped in the spiritual and arts found in the ground. Things

     There was a whole audience waiting out there for them. She placed her hand to her chest, feeling the thrum of her own heart below her palm. The exhilaration was ensnaring her in a fit of euphoria. A high she couldn’t help but chase. Whether it was the repetition of a song or a set. She chased this high all day and night. Now she stood on the precipice of fulfilling this yearning. She took an impossibly deep breath and held tight to the rope at her side. Waiting for the beat to drop before she soared out into the audience with a full-speed run and dive. The hoop she now clung to was thin beneath her fingertips but sturdy. At this moment, right now, she was infinite. The cheer and gasp of the crowd only fuelled her high. If she were able to burst into flame on command, she would in this very moment.      Each beat thrummed through her body, and she twisted and flipped around the hoop. Her legs hook over and under, just as her instructor stressed. Falling from this height would end t

Writing is amazing and annoying. Ideas take a lot of effort to flesh out. When you live in your head often ideas you once thought were unique feel overplayed and repetitive simply because you yourself have been turning it over in your mind for so long. Often I want to start an idea and it quickly becomes a monumental task that requires me to map out a whole world. How does the magic work? How do people live day to day? Are everyday moments too mundane? I know we want to move the plot along or develop characters. When I was in film school the question was always what does this scene do to further the plot or character’s struggle. What purpose does it serve? But, with film, we are working with a set amount of minutes. That makes sense. There are books that are pages upon pages and when I read I don’t analyze the texts or question whether each scene is necessary. Maybe I should, to better understand, right? That’s what people do when they work with a craft. Turn it inside and out to bette

  To sit down and purposefully write for this feels wrong, weird even. I don’t write with an audience in mind, to be honest. I just write. I write out my feelings and when inspiration strikes. To find things to blog about feels disingenuous… So why not write about that? Writing purposefully feels weird after a while. It’s most likely because when I started writing I had a lot of big emotions to get out. I often wonder if that’s why I find it hard to write sometimes. To be blunt, my dad passed away around a month after I turned 9. That’s a lot to deal with. It started me into being really introspective, before this point I was loud, rambunctious, and forthright. A kid obviously. I remember liking a boy nearly twice my age and making him hold my hand and my sister scolding me for kissing his hand. I loved hard. A force of nature. I terrorized the people I had crushes on. I imagine it was 2-3rd grade when I stopped. I don’t remember much about that time. I remember things from kindergarte

       S ometimes days stretch on endlessly. The kind of endless that sinks into the bones. That rests heavily on the muscle. And pulls at the skin. It's a deep-seated discomfort.     As a child, I wrestled with this heaviness often, as an adult, I wrestle with this feeling often. You would think with such a vast head start on coping  with  heaviness I'd be miles ahead of understanding it. You'd think I'd be at grips with the way my soul droops.     Yet instead, I sit here  with lids peeled back wide-eyed and aghast. How could the weight on my shoulders ever compare  To each atrocity  whizzing across my screen? The world has never felt so connected, yet so damn isolating.     The need for comparison, where does it stem from? I wonder. Maybe when the big feelings were too big I was asked to be small compact not life-sized.      What problems could a child possibly have? When I am confronted, by the tears of a crying child my heart stutters. I see the child in me, who onl