Thoughts from a Paradoxical Dreamer

 It has occured to me that I am not personal or vulnerable. Of course you aren't going to read what I write🖉 because you have no motive to. You don't know me, so why should you take advice from me or even care? Well, I guess you deserve to know that much. If it wasn't already obvious I am a devout Christian girl who loves ♥ to write. This makes my work resonate with a limited audience (my friends) Besides that most people know I love to write but don't know the amount of dedication I put into my written works. I think that's why it has been so hard to be vulnerable because when I write it is me. Everything I've shaped and molded🍯 feels like a crumbly ashtray some second grader made in pottery class but it's my crumbly ashtray and so I share it and because people have standards and expectations they either look at it and put it on the drying rack or they say nice try do it again. I've been writing for 10 years since I was 11 and I haven't stopped. ...

        Few things give me more joy than the simplicity and complexity of life. I love walking around and picking up dandelions, imagining myself as a tiny speck on a vast planet. That's all we are, really... tiny specks, like ants🐜 trying their hardest to do their best. We are like ants, and yet we matter. Our little tiny colony matters, and I matter. I love watching lightning🗲 crash to the floor in a vast sprawling web of electric charge. I find it beautiful and glorious to watch snails🐌 walk, leaving a trail of slime. Everything we touch is made up of atoms and molecules. The joy we get is a result of neurons and dopamine flowing through our brain🧠 and inside the rest of us at a complex unfathomable speed.  Isn't it crazy that we can have qualities similar to our parents and yet look and act like completely different people? Somehow I'm 50% my mom and 50% my dad, yet 100% me. A completely different person. Isn't it incredible that we are at the perf...

     Ok, maybe this blog is too crazy and confusing but what else does an aspiring author do? All of my life I've been told that I have a way to write to the soul. I find a way to go to the heart 💗of an issue and uproot it encasing this observation in imagery🖌 and passion. I've been told by everyone who reads my work that I am a good writer, but I just don't know how to break through pleasantries, essays, journals,📓 and poems and get to the stage of corporate, published, and legible. In essence, my greatest desire😍. I write frequently I introduce myself and say that I love to write.🖉 Writing is how I can break through molds ✊and express my understanding of life that I've kept hidden for so long. There are those certain people I tell but that doesn't change anything.      I'm still a paradox and an anomaly and I can't help but love it.  I love💗 being me so why does the average person I meet treat it like it's a bad thing? Sorry, if this is a pathe...

Note: A loon is a crazy person.   “Flick! Fffff,” The soft encouraging sound to move on, to keep going, to shine brightly. The crazy loon carefully coaxed the soft and soothing hope toward his little tea candle🕯. The hope bit back a bit at his calloused hand, eating away bit by bit of the wooden stick that held it close as the loon brought his hope to the candle.🕯 “One day.” He told himself glancing at the lovely little silver disk. “One day.” The loon uncovered the dark, pitch-black curtain and looked out into his dark, pitch-black world,🗺 holding tightly to his wooden stick with the red reactor at the tip and carefully placing the silver disk in front of the window. As he did every night, the loon threw open his window and placed the open sign in front of his door, put things away, and got ready for a party. But, just as expected, no one came. No one ever came and the candle would dwindle into nothing but a pile of wax. A burnt-out wick in an equally burnt out world and ...

 There were three little lambs, one, two, three   All on different farms in the county   One was green,🟢 another blue, 🔵the last one was polka-dotted, why? No one knew.   One was a girl, boys the first two,   But I’m sorry to say no one wanted little Blue.   The farmer looked at his blue lamb🐑 and noticed instantly,   Only three little legs and a nub where the fourth should be   And you know besides that, he was kind of daft   And banged on a couple of rocks, and this poor lamb had a love for chewing socks.🧦   One day the farmer cried out “this lamb won’t do for me!”   And he took the lamb and shot him down,🔫 now there’s only two lambs of the three.🐑🐑   The second little lamb had a happy life, nice as a green lamb could be   The painters🖌 cared for him until they heard of a tragedy   Green had been shipped on a large wooden crate and getting him had been a mi...

     The 📘first book I ever wrote was a terrible story called Pinki girl Versus the Revenge of the Glue Takers. I was young enough to write simple words and figure out clip art but not old enough to know that takers isn't a word and revenge stories are rarely the first book. In my story,🕮 I was a brave hero (Pinki Girl) saving my little sister from this bad guy who decided to kidnap her after he stole her favorite unicorn🦄 glue. It was terrible and had a horrible plot but once I learned the magic of W ord documents I realized I would never stop loving to write.🖋 While my two siblings woke up early to play video games or watch Pink Panther or Garfield 🐈 I would sit at my dad's computer 🖳and type out a story. I wrote one about me saving my family from giant bugs,🐛 a story about a dog detective,🔍 and an alien story about an alien crash landing onto the earth. 👽      It was an exciting adventure suddenly I could be the person, I always wanted to ...