Muse Ariadne.
week of apr 22nd: explore on the softness & blurring of edges—dawn/dusk, the place between sleep and wakefulness, transitions from youthfulness to adulthood and adulthood to old age. what do those borders & changes feel like, look like, smell like?
week of apr 8th: try to make your writing as silent as possible. i know it's a weird prompt-- don't take it too seriously. have fun. what does it mean for writing to be quiet?
week of apr 1st: explore the concept of time in your writing. play with the idea of how we perceive passing time [linear/cyclical/all at once/not at all] and make it weird and surreal, or maybe go more classic & write some fun time travel/time loop fiction. how does time shape us?
I like to joke that I'm a being who exists outside the realm of time and space. Really, I'm just constantly in a dissociative state. As such, time is difficult to make sense of. Amnesia worsens the state. Time is fleeting. I live in seconds or minutes, not in hours or days. Perhaps, this is how most people live but my memory is equally as fleeting. Who was the person I was a minute ago? What was my name? What was I doing? Oh, what? You're telling me that I was doing that? When time slows down everything feels like it's melting like an ice cube in the hot sun. Or everything feels super big or super small. I start to fumble at simple words, I forget who I am, I feel outside of the world. Or that the world feels outside of me. My soul leaves my body. What is this world anyways? What is time but just another contruct. As I fade into the blackness of my dissociative episode, I begin to wonder if this is what death feels like. And in death, there is no such thing as "time".
week of feb 26th: write about echoes, sound, and reverberation. what is an echo– just sound or something more? how can it reverberate through past, present, and future? can emotion be an echo in that way? what else can be?
(This was the prompt that made me want to join the writing club. Um... I'm schizophrenic so... yeah.) When I think about echoes I think of a long dark tunnel from which the echoes reverberate from. These echoes cry out saying various things: some funny, some random, some angry, some anxious, some dark. The way the echoes scream and laugh and cry... continously. Never-ending. They reverberate inside my head but also outside my ears. Sometimes they'll even reach out to me, a tap on the shoulder or a grip of my hand. Past, present, and future doesn't seem to matter to these echoes. They will echo anyways. Sometimes I'll yell back at them, urging them to stop or asking begrudgingly, "What do you want?" The response depends on the mood, but usually it's the same reply. Like a canned customer service message that repeats itself over and over again. I wonder who's at the other end of the tunnel yelling these things at me.