Breathing space: that excuse he uses so often.
Outer space: that empty place you find yourself wishing upon a star.
The Space: that awesome shop for locally designed trappings.
White space: that horrible page that stares at you when you’re suffering from creative block.
Space-y: that Kevin guy in American Beauty.
It’s easy to tear the paper label and see the beginning piece of the ball of wool. So often however, we end up looking for the end piece too. Like the cat, curiosity gets the better of us and we want to play.
It actually makes no sense to try to find the end from the very beginning because if you have ever played with a ball of wool you will know that it turns out to be a real mess and you can never quite get out of the tangle.
So many people do the same with relationships. It shouldn’t be that way though. Surely being patient and letting the fibre reveal itself piece by piece is a much better way to ensure some warmth at the end of a hard day’s knit.
Life is like a rat-race. We’re all rats spinning on our own wheels. It feels like we’re going nowhere but the speed gives us a thrill. We also make real Mickeys of ourselves at times (remember that Mickey Mouse is a rat?)
Despite the abovementioned similarities, it is the differences that are more important. Firstly, the scenery we have is much more pleasant than the rat’s. If only we slowed down to admire it. Secondly, our cages are self-imposed. We can never really be free but we can definitely free ourselves of the unnecessary grids that keep us back. Thirdly, we can choose the rats in our habitat. So, why not share wheels and start a merry-go-round?
Move away from your usual feast by enclosing the e (eats, excess, extravagance, e-mail, ego, ether, ecstasy) and have a blessed month of fast.
Ramadaan Mubarak.
Buried in a colouring book
You move easily beyond the outlines
Blurring the image and
Colouring in frantically
With shades of burnt umber and red.
Verb intr. To speak or write at length.
So as not to ek-spay-shee-ayt, this post ends here.
Your words are like a picket fence of
Evenly spaced posts knocked into my ground.
Whitewashed, rigid, sharp at the tip.
All they give me is a false sense of security.
Inspired by the charming little book Bloom’s Bouquet of Imaginary Words (by Jeffrey and Carole Bloom), the following words blossomed in my mind:
Ever feel like you’re
The one in the second row.
Too short to be seen?
Test Card F 