”At least we’re breathing the same air, you and I.”

Whenever I want to gain some new inspiration, and allow new thoughts to enter I free write. It can be about absolutely anything. It can start from a word that I like, from a song, from a conversation I overheard at the coffee shop or from nature. It can grow from anything.

Writing is exercise for the mind. As important it is to exercise our bodies it is equally important to exercise our beautiful minds. However, you don’t have to write in order to challenge your mind; you can for example learn a new language, study a new subject or meditate – simply do something that your mind isn’t used to.

Create space for new ideas to enter, whatever ideas they might be – let them come. Don’t analyze them too much; they’re just thoughts. In the end they will simply be words written on a piece of paper.

Step out from your own mind

I often try to picture myself in another person’s mind when writing, forcing myself to become more creative, and to allow the feelings to be more profound. Cause let’s be honest, you don’t have to feel all the feelings you write about. Sometimes you just want to step outside your own mind and write from another person’s point of view. I like to think that’s how we grow our minds; it’s how we become more open-minded, and more empathetic human beings. Try to put yourself in another person’s situation. It may not be as easy as you may think, but it’s worth the challenge.

The power of silence

People are so familiar with noise, distractions, sounds, talking, interruptions and opinions that silence has become rare, and sometimes even frightening. Silence is a powerful tool because people don’t expect silence. People expect argument, disturbance, debate, and they seek every opportunity to be right, to have the final word. Make them uncomfortable, hence, force them to think before they speak. Let them become aware of the peacefulness that surrounds the moment. To master silence is to master your voice, it’s to master your surroundings and it’s to master yourself. Make space for silence, and you’ll make space for sensational thoughts to enter.

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5 AM. ‘A good night’s sleep? Merely a memory,’ the young boy thought while trying to scratch his upper back. His left hand reached out to the other side of the bed, searching for something that wasn’t there. He grabbed the pillow, pulled it close to his chest, forced himself to awaken old memories, old scents. Regardless of how hard he tried he could not forget that scent. There were people who got caught up in old memories while listening to music. It was the smell, that haunted him.

He dragged himself out of bed to open the balcony door. His feet touched the raw, biting surface. He was paralyzed, and in some miraculous way his broken heart still found a way to beat. The thunderstorm had kept him up all night. He had never gotten over them, traumatised since early childhood. And the rashes, those damn rashes. He had never gotten rid of them either. ‘Will I ever get over this,’ he whispered to himself, staring at the empty bed.

……………..

The young boy took a quick jump to the side, and hid behind the old oak tree. Dirty leaves lying on the wet grass, sticking firmly to his shoes. He observed the old man’s wrinkly face, his tired eyes appeared to be completely lost in the pages. Is it even possible to read a book so water damaged? He decided to move a bit closer, and with every step his heartbeat started to slow down. The air was still humid despite the rain that had been pouring down during the night. The old man looked up. He placed the book in his pocket and moved to the left as soon as he saw him. His eyes gazing at the dark clouds coming in. ‘It will most probably be here within an hour or so.’

‘It kept me up all night,’ the young boy said, scratching his right leg.

‘There’s no rainbow without the rain.’ The old man took a glimpse at his leg. ‘Mosquitos?’

‘No, rashes. Kept me up all night.’ The young boy looked down at his once white converses. He usually didn’t have problems this time of the year. Now he could barely sit still, even though every cell in his body was screaming for silence.

‘Yet, here we are, breathing the same air, watching the same night sky. The same stars, guiding us, and illuminating our souls when we’ve found ourselves astray in the dark,’ the old man replied.

They could hear the thunder from far distant. The young boy scratched his forearm while a tender breeze brushed his cheek. In just seconds the wind got stronger. ‘But it aches. It aches so bad I can’t breathe. When does it stop?’

The old man closed his eyes. ‘If it was love, then never.’