The pounding of my heart is a windowless and doorless room. A skull-storm rages on and on. How it booms, sending me back to the floor. How the electrical strikes blind. My limbs have trembled for so long that it is all I know. Fear and trembling. Is that a book? It sounds like a book. It should be a book.
"For writers in the next half century and beyond, a comprehension of how creative writing, neurology, biology and our environment interact will be essential for a successful career."
- a link to the full article is in my bio and on the Descriptionari "About" page.
- you can email me using either AngelaCarolineAbraham@gmail.com or AngelaDescriptionari@outlook.com for a quote on tutoring and/or editing services.
Much love!!!
Angela Abraham (Daisy)
"Adjective and noun associations are worthy of our consideration because by careful linkage of words such as 'black' with strong emotionally positive words (such as in 'black heavens' and 'noble black night') we can start to program subconscious bias from the brain by creating a background neurochemistry that is more positive. This keeps the prefrontal cortex more fully operational and encourages more empathy in both thoughts and behaviours. Thus society develops better through their own choices and evolves. This is part of social evolution and this kind of awareness in writers is essential."
"It turns out, as obviousness would have it, that our brains (especially those of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby in this case) have been teaching us neurology through comic books and the movies that have come from them."
Full article linked to from my profile, click "abraham" below, awesome!!
Here they come, the sweet babies of recent years. Here they come, those without the manners of their elders or affluent peers. Here they come, the future of nations breath, our greatest treasure, our hearts. Here they come, the fodder for the machine. Here they come. Here they come. Here they come. Why so glum? Why not be more chipper when the morning comes? Hey ho! Hey ho! Put on your work boots! Put on your gloves! In this great system, in our grand plan, why on Earth would you be so confused?
I was born to sprint through fog. I was born to meet the devil's gaze square on. I was born for the battlefield. So, whilst I love the days of feasting and song, whilst I live for the merriment of kith and kin, my sword is ever sharp. Whom we love, we protect. Such vows hold sacredness above all. So bring on the mental parkour or, better yet, holster your mouth and pull up a chair. I am the commander, yet all who march with us are free hearts.
"When we make daily choices that are emotionally indifferent, the sort that the money-nexus makes faux-virtues of, we build our capacity for emotional indifference at the direct expense of our capacity for empathy, and thus the conflict between money and love is laid bare."
Money spiders fanned out over her palm, their tiny legs all of a tickle. She giggled. How intense they were, absorbed by a common purpose. Theirs was a sweet chaos, the kind you see in every schoolyard at playtime. Tip, tapperty, tap, tip: went hundreds of feet that weren’t feet at all. Her hand lowered to a nearby sunwarm rock to enable them to disembark. Away they streamed in arachnid merriment, this shoal of eight legged friends.
Hungry streets and silent lamps meet core-cold walls. Barely a window is whole, barely a roof is watertight. Drip. Drip. Drip. Even the echo of footfalls and laughter is long, long forgotten. I stop. In dappled shade, my eyes fall to the crumbling sidewalk. Beneath an age-bowed tree slumps a long storm bedraggled doll, her eyes scratched, her short arms reaching toward nothing at all. I pick it up, slumping onto a rust-bitten bonnet, the car groan-bouncing in its pools of cracking rubber. Then comes a sterile wind of no aroma, not even floral weeds; how it whistles in the languished way of horror movies. It sings a song of winter's grip, of a world smothered in ice. Abandoned streets, abandoned homes, lives once rooted in mundane stability... How they must long for those dreary days.
I have fought these long years in efforts I pray are not in vain. It is my duty to keep you safe. In that I must either win or give my life to its cause. Yet as there is no pride in cowardice, there is nothing gained by the foolhardy. And so, in my autumnal years, even as winter calls, I stand on guard for thee. Weep not for my struggle, yet be warmed by my love. And for the pain I could not save you from, let me have my tears.