Creative Writing: Time

‘Even a stopped clock gives the right time twice a day.‘ (Withnail and I, 1986)

The ticking of a clock beguiles and cajoles us into thinking that time is a measurable entity. It is, rather, what we make of it. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and more beyond – all defined by us. These arbitrary measurements give us order, something to cling onto in life’s fast lane.

Time can give us relief, something to count down to, to aspire to; yet equally it can cause us to panic at the hours, days, years of life that are falling by the wayside, bringing the onset of an exam, job, responsibility, a reason to mature, committment, offspring or retirement.

Confusion can reign: Have I been asleep for 1 hour, or maybe 10 or 24? Again, the clock rights our world and causes us to either put our heads back down on the pillow, safe in the knowledge that we can get another couple of hours shut eye, or causes us to jump up, awake in an instant, adrenaline showing its power. Can’t be late, can’t be late – ‘time is of the essence’, after all.

Happiness (married for five years), sadness (dead for ten), competition (faster than him), boredom (doing a job for five hours solid without a break), despair (life’s gone nowhere over the past two years), jealousy (you were given how much?) and many, many more feelings can be experienced, purely through the notion of time.

We’re dominated by the ticking of seconds, minutes, hours. Society runs on it. Is this a good or bad thing?

Creative Writing: The Black Dog

I wrote this a couple of days ago when I was thinking about what friends, or indeed people, can be used for. I quite enjoyed writing this – I’m not entirely sure why it’s about depression, but I guess the idea of an actual black dog got my brain ticking along.

‘So. Here we are again’, it says, head bowed.

You’ve become more acquainted with each other these past few weeks and months than you ever were before.

Before, he was there merely in the distance, a distant star in the universe, a peripheral image not troubling you, a speck of dust in an immaculate room. Barely visible, barely noticeable. Nowadays, it’s become your best friend, or so it feels. The sort of friend that you know, who tells you everything, is always there for you, except they’ve got a bit of a malicious streak. Rather than fill you with joy, they fill you with ever diminishing shades of greys and blacks.

He entwines himself around your legs, panting slightly, catching the few tears you shed as you ask him to go away, pushing at him with your foot. Last week was bad enough.

He stays sitting, looking at you. Nothing more. You look at him, feel more tears running down your face. The fucker. He enjoys this.

Alcohol calls to you seductively, it’s bottle looking rather nicely made up today, with a short cap on and see through glass, condensation coating it, waiting to be rubbed off and held.
‘Fancy playing with me, hm?’ The glass winks at you.
At least then, your mind will be numb enough to avoid the very numbness that you’re trying to get away from. Now there’s an irony. Normally, you’d smile at that – but not today. No energy, no feeling. Not much of anything really.

Your eyes travel to the front door. Some air, cold as it is, wouldn’t be too bad. It’d get you out of here at least. Walking used be a favourite hobby, until he showed up, remember? Now he follows you everywhere, a puppy following its master avidly. To him, you’re probably just a big and odd looking cat.

A step outside makes you shrink back – the wind gets you and chills you almost instantly. You give a sigh, a shiver and button up your jacket, along with twisting your scarf into a delicate pattern.
‘That should keep the chill out’, you mutter, yet it makes no noticeable difference.

You wonder how you look to those passers by who are coming towards you from all directions, their eyes not giving you more than a cursory glance as you flit into their eyeline for a second, before being just a memory. A one frame film in the millions of images of life per day.
You don’t really care. Nor do they. Same old, same old.

A bench beckons you to it. You sit and feel your ever-present companion curl up at your feet. A sigh, head in hands. He slowly envelopes you.

Through skin-thick blackness, you sense a presence. You look up. A young man stands there. He looks concerned.
‘Excuse me’, he says, cautiously yet with a note of warmth in his voice, ‘I couldn’t help but notice that you look very down’.
He falls silent for a moment, eyes lingering on your face. You look back at him.
‘Do you want me to do anything? Someone to talk to, a hug or a coffee?’
You give a small sob, more tears falling to your feet, carried along by the wind.
He sits by you, puts his arm gently around you, making you feel not quite so alone.
You attempt to speak – where to start? Where to begin to vocalise the mind’s ever present voice’s song?
He still sits, a stranger, willing to listen to you for as long as it takes.

You close your eyes, tilt your head towards the sky and open them. Your companion shifts by your feet. Although still horribly overcast, the world suddenly seems a little brighter.

Creative Writing: Words

This is a little monologue, I suppose, that I wrote this afternoon while having a bit of a think about random things. I always like writing these sorts of things. It enables me to give my mind a bit of a creative and artistic run – we all need that occasionally.

They can cut through us. They shock us, leave us holding our breath, waiting for the next to either ease or increase the tension. A couple of little letters can cause various feelings and reactions to run through us: fear, disgust, happiness, sadness, indifference, shock, outrage.

They can be treasured, remembered for a long time, bringing a smile to the face. They can be thrown away, seen as a pointless accompaniment to politeness where it shouldn’t have to exist, yet they can be seen to smooth the path and oil the wheels of transactions, deals and life in the same breath from a different set of eyes.

The thoughts that some bring – ‘meeting with the boss’, ‘public speaking’, ‘you’re horrible’ – tower above us, leaving us with a less than pleasant anxiety, while the thoughts that others bring – ‘you’ve won the competition’, ‘you’re appreciated more than you know,’, ‘you’re adorable’ – a feeling of lightness and cause a warm hearted, genuine smile.

They can be used diplomatically, aggressively, to soothe and console, to celebrate and shower praise, to destruct and damage, without thinking, with premeditated forethought, in anger, in love, in indifference and in battle. They can build bridges, burn them, and prop them up while wildly swaying from side to side.

Words, in short, need to be used wisely. They are one of the keys to happiness, life and prosperity.

Creative Writing: Winter’s Coming

The wind gives you a smile, a reassuring gesture, then goes ahead and fleeces you royally anyway.
It has no morals, no scruples, it just takes and takes from you, ad nauseum.
If a shiver starts, or you are temporarily short of breath due to it, it seems to relish it and hits you with an ever increasing ferorcity.

The only salvation you have: Two wollen gloves, a scarf and a jacket, zipped up to the top.
For now, it seems to keep the wind at bay, but it’ll come back renewed, stronger, colder.

But it’ll lose its power: You’ll curse it, sigh as you pull on layers and boots, but you’ll check your jacket one more time, take a breath, open the door and face it.
That’s what matters – the cold weather won’t beat us.

Creative Writing: ‘Berlin II’

I gaze around, expecting something to be out of place, but it isn’t. For once, my memory has etched these details onto my mind’s vinyl perfectly, waiting for the needle to play them back to me.

The same route, same appearance, same noises of trains, same streets, smells, shops and panoramic views.
At Alexanderplatz, the same grey concrete and tower blocks. In the station, the same signs, same heavily graffitied passageway leading to the platforms.
At Normannenstraße, the same Stasi buildings remain; by no means the tallest around but not dwarfed by any other.

‘Same’ is not necessarily boring: I smile, look around. Berlin hasn’t changed. It smiles back – two friends, reunited.

Creative Writing: ‘Das Brandenburger Tor’

There it stands, being photographed daily, thousands upon thousands of flashbulbs blind it, yet its smile, posture, attitude never changes.
It’s always proud.

“I stand here before you now having divided two cities, countries, worlds, ideals.
Where you stand, soldiers once stood, hautily eyeing the other, for they were the enemy.
Now, I symbolise reunification, hope, a new way.
For that, I will never be forgotten, etched in the memories of all German citizens past, present and future.”

Its columns and horsebacked men stand strong now, stood strong then, even when all else seemed to fade.

A good attitude to have in life: The Brandenburger Tor lives a little in each of us.

Creative Writing: ‘Berlin’

The list of sights and things you want to do firmly lodged in your mind, also duplicated in your pocket.
You shut the door, the wind and slight drizzle hitting you as you look out into the foggy, dark morning.
You zip your jacket up, smiling to yourself as you walk, despite the temperature.

The Hbf lights welcome you: Food and a thousand travel prospects lie inside.
You though, only have one that’s calling you on, forcing you to make this walk this morning.

On the train, you look up, see your destination in red lettering on the display. It flitters away into an advert for a ticket deal, then returns.
The doors slide shut, sleek as ever. The train pulls out.
You lean back in your seat, nose and fingers beginning to thaw.
Your smile grows: Berlin is ever closer.

Creative Writing: ‘Writer’s Block’

Writer’s Block

The paper, the lines, the writing pad. They stare at you, expectantly.
‘Write on us.’
They tease you, tear at you: 128 pages of beautiful, empty lines, waiting for ink to grace them. You give an inward sigh, a sign of defeat. You can’t: Too many ideas, too many unfinished and half-thought-of plots and not enough time.

You slip the pad shut; the lines, pages and pad remain silent in their sadness and inadequecy.

Creative Writing: ‘Zwiebelmarkt’

Zwiebelmarkt

Dodging people to the left and right.
An onion stall here, Bratwurst one there, beer one further on.
Music, live, loud and garish, heard from every angle.
150,000 in a small town is a sight to see.
Young and old, able bodied and with a stick, dark and grey – all with a smile, all moving as a collective body.

You shuffle along with them, eyes looking, head turning in time with theirs, looking for a gap in the throng.
None appears.
You slip back in time with their movements, looking, not for a gap, but at idle trinkets.
You sigh, in for the long haul down this street.

48 hours later.
You look around you, squinting against the sun.
Space is present.
A young couple sit, happily hugging, alone.
You hear your own footsteps.
Shops are closed: Ruhetag.
Weimar has never been quieter.