I’m posting something today that is radically different from most of my posts in the “Writing” category.
For this prose I wrote strictly from the inside of a person’s thoughts.
There are no conversations or descriptions of appearance. Only thoughts.
(The character thinking these thoughts is not real, but being that my only reference as to how people think is through my own mind, some of the character’s thoughts are mine!)
Look at those two people, standing side by side. Seeing the same things. Feeling the sun’s warmth on their heads. Tasting the same spring breeze. Smelling the same aroma of flowering buds. Yet they do not have the same thoughts of it. They do not see the same things in the same way. Look how they are speaking to each other. Loudly, as if they are different outside than the people underneath.
I wonder if they want someone to know their thoughts and keep them secret, as I do. Does anyone truly want to know a person so intimately so as to know their deepest thoughts? Even the dark and selfish parts? I should feel ashamed for someone to know my deepest thoughts, for sometimes they are ugly indeed. Perhaps it is a curse that our thoughts are ours alone. Only we can hear them. This makes us feel safe thinking even terrible thoughts, and we forget that God is listening. Oh, how dreadfully shameful some thoughts are! I wish I could rid myself of them. They are what prove to me that I am a bad person. For on the outside, I can appear however I wish. I suppose people view me as kind, as I want. I wish I were kind through and through! Dear God, please rid me of my awful thoughts! I ought to quicken my pace a bit. Momma will need my help soon. Dear God, it feels that everyone in the world is pretending to be someone else! We all are so silly. Thank You for putting up with us!
The air is so sweet today. So warm. It feels as if the world were reaching out and enveloping me. As if nothing could do me harm. It really is a wonderful world. The way the trees move in the wind is so beautiful. I wish I could capture it forever in my memory. I wish I could paint it, and have it portray the same beauty. I wish time did not move forward, but stood still forever, so I could capture the lovely outlines of the trees.
Look at how stark and black their outlines are against the sky. The sky is so bright and brilliant and full today, too. I really should finish my walk and help with housework.
Feel the bitterness of the wind, now! The way the wind is so alive makes me feel alive. Truly like flying. I know that a world as stunning as this did not happen! I know there is a Creator. Perhaps, when I go to Him, I will fly.
I long to with such intense hope that I feel it must be a real thing that is more lifelike than this life. This life has such limitations that I am sure there must be a more real life after this.
It is starting to get chilly and dusk-like. Look at the way the sun illuminates the clouds! They are shining with tints of tangerine and gold and ruby and purple, a majestic purple, and magenta. I will go inside, now.
Go back to reality, instead of this dream-like train of thought. Sometimes, while I am in the dream, it is much rosier than life, and I wish to stay in that dream forever. Perhaps a dream is closer to real life than the life not of a dream! Now I am babbling. That doesn’t make sense. But somehow, I feel that dreams are another kind of reality.
Scientists say dreams happen when your sense of reality shuts down. But what if dreams ARE reality? How strange this thought is! The porch steps need paint. The echo of my feet going up them sounds so hollow and creaky it reminds me of how I imagined a farm porch in a novel. I wish we had a porch swing!
I fly in my dreams, as I want to in real life. But I do suppose I like real life better than dreams. Oh! A beetle! I wish I could be like the girls in books, who love insects. I think they are so unpredictable, and I hate it when they get in my hair!
Dreams have the awful sense that I cannot control what happens. That at any moment, the dream could turn dark and uncontrollable. Humans like to be in control. There is Momma. Such a sweet mother. I will try to help her more. I should not have gone on a walk. Oh, but I think she doesn’t mind. There. It is alright after all.
Duties are so dull after having an afternoon all to thought. It feels that childhood is much better than adulthood, although adults have “freedom.” I don’t believe they do. I would rather not age, and just stay in my thoughts. My, but I sound full of philosophy. I don’t even know what it means! And here I go basing it off of my feelings, when I’ve already established that feelings aren’t to be trusted! Well, now, I’ll go and get the laundry.
What do you think of this style of writing?