Photo: Ivan Karasev
“I suspect more damage has been done to my sanity in jail, in months; than years, decades, in the woods.” —Christopher Knight
The first time I heard about Christopher Knight, I thought I had found my spirit animal. He’s the last true hermit who ran away into the woods, just so he could be alone.
He braved harsh winters and survived in the wilderness for 27 years, before he was finally caught for trespassing and burglary.
I had mixed feelings about his arrest, because on one hand, he did steal people’s belongings, but on the other hand, there’s only so much food and gas you can find in the wild.
So you’re just gonna quit writing?”
Jim shrugged, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he exhaled. “There’s just… nothing to write about anymore, you know?”
“What about the shitty things you face at work?” I asked.
“That’s the thing,” Jim replied. “Work has been great.”
“Have you ever tried writing without emotions?”
Photo credit: Sam Caplat
Via Daily Prompt: Cling
I can’t polish a blank page, which is why I actually started writing this piece — I wanted to prove to myself that I couldn’t polish crap either. I haven’t been able to write as freely as I’d like lately, and it’s probably because I’m clinging to perfection.
Much of my workflow involves tinkering the first sentence over and over until I realise I’ve veered so far off what I actually wanted to say that I end up abandoning the piece completely.
Photo credit: Rolands Lakis
Via Daily Prompt: Festive
There’s a weird relationship between happy tunes and horror movies; the twinkling of a baby mobile, or tunes from a theme park. You don’t get the same chill from, say, dubstep or emo rock.
The advertisement jingles in supermarkets are right up the horror-movie aisle (heh). How could anybody be happy about a ten percent discount off a two-dollar item? My heart goes out to the staff every time I shop in a supermarket that repeats music and the month’s current offers.
Today, I find myself at the hypermarket deciding on a door gift for a new year’s party. Should I go for the wine, or the snacks? I visualise a wine snob at the party—and it’s a real possibility because I don’t know anyone there—frowning at my ten-dollar bottle of wine. But ten-dollar wine is classier than twenty-dollar bags of Lays, surely?
We’ll all die someday, destined to return to the earth from whence we came. I’d like to think of the body as a vehicle that takes you through the journey of life, a rental with a return date.
Most people would like to return their cars unscathed, because it’s a smoother ride when you’re not dragging your fender across the highway. But when it’s time to turn in my set of keys, I’d imagine that I’d be returning something a little less pristine.
Shit I don’t think I can make this move.
Looks like a scary drop if I don’t stick this.
Am I tied in properly?
Why am I doing this again?
Not limited to one thought per climb, I often find myself second-guessing my intent of trusting my life with a pulley the width of my pinky. Not to mention the tedious work involved in building the strength and technique needed to finish a route. But completing a project I’ve been working on makes it all worth it in the end.