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LEGOs

There once was a boy who just wanted to write. He wanted so badly he stayed up at night. Thinking, he thought all the thoughts he could think, And he wanted to write them as fast as a blink. He wrote lots and lots, but never enough, For his writing could never keep up with the stuff. His neurons were quick, but his fingers were not, And his thinker got lost keeping up with his thought. Ideas were all over, but time was too short, And dreamers are not the self-disciplined sort. So he dreamed and he wrote, but the dreams were too large, And soon the poor boy was no longer in charge. For his thoughts flew all over, concocting great tales And stories and worlds full of ships and of sails And of dragons and villains and heroes and love And of danger below and of hope from above. The thoughts and the stories grew faster than flowers. The boy watched in horror as minutes and hours Flew by, with not but a word on the page, And still the ideas fou
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FIRE

[This is the prologue to my first Star Wars novel] A ship. Because it always starts with a ship. It entered the atmosphere leisurely, as if flown by one whose time is always his own. Descending, unheeded, toward the remote plains outside the city, it landed quietly, and from it emerged a man. He was tall, hooded, and powerful, and he strolled purposefully toward the city. He had no map or device by which to orient himself, yet he knew exactly where he was going. And so he traversed the miles from his ship to his destination silently and without incident. His destination was a small home near the outskirts of the city. Within, a young boy of seven years was sitting down to supper with his father. The mother of the boy and wife of the father had been dead for some time, and all that each had now was the other. The father smiled fondly at his son as he prepared their supper, tired though he was from the day ’ s work. As he finished preparations and set the food on the table, a sh
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Emotion

The sunlight filters through the canopy and slices its way between the branches, making the leaves seem fragile and translucent as it exposes their veins. From certain angles, the beams of light look like you could reach out and grab them with your hands. The dust particles rise and fall slowly, floating in a vacuum unaffected by gravity. I see none of this as I sit in the solemn silence of the forest, for my eyes are closed, and my thoughts are elsewhere. Nothing moves around me except the dust and the occasional soft breeze in the trees above. My mind ranges far over the mountains in search of inspiration and peace. In the stillness, I feel my normally anxious heart subside and beat slowly, until I can hear nothing but the sound of it palpitating within me. Out here, the small issues of the village seem petty. Temporary. Illusive. In the depth of the forest, the pain and the injustice of it all are distant and remote, like the happenings of another life in another part of another
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Powerless

Don’t love unless you’re ready to have your heart broken That’s what they tell you Mostly they’re referring to romantic love when they say that, I think Relationship Love A connection between two people, each desiring the full affection and acceptance and adoration of the other in a mutually exclusive and forever bond but both equally scared that perhaps the other is not all-in and unsure if they themselves are all-in Those can be messy And painful When the other person decides he or she is no longer all-in And removes himself or herself from your life (in that capacity) And all that you hoped for and dreamed about is stripped away from you in an instant And you are left with a hole inside of you And you wonder if your heart will ever be the same again That sucks But it’s not just true in relationships It is also the case in art Don’t love something unless you’re willing to have your heart broken Art is a funny thing It makes deep connection p
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