Newest quotes & creative writing ideas


//-I miss you. I miss you so much. I know you can't hear me as I'm saying this - but I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, no matter how far you are, or how long it is until we talk again. ( - Credit to Gabe for starting lines )

Just know that I am in love with you and that love doesn't die; and so I shall wait. And if this all turns out to be dead, than it was never love. Rather, something quite different; and I have no words lefts to describe what it could possibly be, have this not have been love. But I personally promised to love you until death do we part, and it appears that, that time may be here... So please remember me as I drift away and I know you'll remember my name. But for the love of God; please remember how far you fell when you looked into my misty green eyes and you touched my short dark hair as I brushed past you; trying to forget the way your thoughts made me feel as they slipped out of your mouth and into the busy tracks of my brain and consumed my entire life with the hope that you might maybe actually care? And it appears not, so I'm sorry for wasting your time and existing in your life when I wasn't what you needed. And I know you love her and I could never stop you but I hope that the next time you hear my name you'll stop in your tracks and it will echo in your ears making you think of all the chances you could've had... -// -A.B


The grass flattened under the wind in beautiful shimmering waves, each blade turned momentarily to reflect brilliant sunlight. Each one was no more than a slim wand of green, yet together they danced in way that bought out my pain and let a little goodness in.


Falling was easy. I only let go and gravity did the rest.


I'm slamming the edges of my blades against the ice, scratching the delicate surface as I emerged from one side of the rink to the other. I didn't hesitate, moving as swiftly as I could around the defense men. Through the boisterous cheering of the crowd, I could hear the faint thumping of my own heartbeat pulsing in my chest. My breathing was rigid against the bars of the helmet, and my eyes strained to keep sight of the goal.

With a flicker of my wrist, I launched the black puck upward. It spun a few spirals in the air before slamming against the net and my heart dropped. It went in. The puck went in. The buzzer sounded and my teammates engulfed me an embrace. This was it. This was what my heart desired. This is what makes me happy.


I can feel the sweat drench my skin, the throbbing of my own eyes, the ringing screams vibrating in my ears, and the thumping of my heart against my chest. My fingers are curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm. I can't hear my rapid breathing, but I can feel the oxygen flooding in and out of my lungs. Hesitantly, my eyes look at the dead corpse before me, the person I killed. Fear tortures my guts, churning my stomach in tense cramps. Fear engulfs my conscience, knocking all other thoughts aside. Fear overwhelms my body, making it drastically exhausted. However, most of all, the fear is making me calm and that is what scares me the most.


Paradoxically, a morbid fear of slipping over the edge to certain death seemed to feed my curiosity and goad me into an irresistible urge to prostrate myself over the craggy gorget and leer into the mountain’s callous craw. The yawning mouth breathed out a profusion of aromas that hung in the air like the breath of a ravenous wolf and danced to the tune of the warm, upward breeze. With each ambivalent intake of breath the mix of aromas fulminated in a melange of damp and stagnant odours, redolent of dead foliage and animal carcasses, that pranced and pirouetted in the gentle wind and up my nose.


He's the one with the tired look on his face drinking coffee by the window, looking out into the rain, and apologising to people trying to skim past his guitar leaning up on the table.
He's tired, because when he was younger, he believed that you existed, that there was someone for everyone, that he would just Know.
He's tired, because he's not sure anymore. Maybe he should have stayed with that last girl, she was nice, and funny sometimes.
The world is terrible, because even though you can see him, you need an excuse to walk over there, and because there isn't one in the world thats good enough, you wont.
That unblinking, melancholy look on his honey coloured face is the most beautiful thing you can remember seeing, it calms you, along with the sound of the rain on the roof, and it almost seems a crime to breathe in case it all ends.
Then he gets up to leave, and as he does, he nearly knocks over a waitress, and you see him smile at her that goes through to his eyes. Its apologetic and Genuine, and she falls in love with him, you see it happen.
He see's it happen. She keeps moving.
He has to pull on his jacket, looking at the ground, and tie his black hair back at the nape of his neck, and you have no idea that all the while, he is thinking that waitress seemed really nice, maybe funny sometimes, but as much as he wants to, he cant give up the possibility that you exist, so he pays the bill and turns to leave.
As he walks past you, he nearly trips over your guitar leaning on the couch, and he looks right into you while you are apologising, his eyes are huge, and dark brown liquid and it feels like forever, and you are not even sure of what your mouth is saying because he has disconnected you, and he's looking for a reason to sit down, but because there is no reason in the world good enough, he can't.
So he shrugs. He touches the tip of your nose with his finger, taking an eyelash with him, and ducks out the door into the wet, running to his car.

a rainy day

Im the first person in the office early this morning. The diffused grey light of a darkening sky pushes light just far enough into the corners of the building to see my way to my desk without turning anything on. There's no air conditioning hum, no chatter of colleagues, no flickering fluorescent lights. I sit down slowly, quietly thrilled at the novelty of being alone, absorbing the quiet, the empty spaces, watching the birds through the eastern facing windows in the garden outside, oblivious to me. It starts to rain hesitantly and politely. Comforting rain. inside by the fireplace rain, under the blankets rain. My shoulders relax and my mind quietens and I sink deeper into my chair. I sit and listen to the rain grow heavier and more confident until Im sure that this is the only thing I should be doing with the rest of the day.


Streaks of pink wander to the end of the earth, as a blazing orange sets fire to the clouds. A light purple reaches to the horizon. A cool breeze brushes against my skin sending chills all around my body. For a day to end so beautiful shares proof that life can do the same. Thoughts swarm through my head as the red fiery orb disappears. The sun is now halfway across the earth. The sun has set.


To watch a storm slowly flow over an hidden landscape can be likened to a wild dance, the flickering of bright lightening as it speeds through darkening clouds towards the ground, the rain, pouring itself openly from the unseen heavens, pounding and arcing harder and heavier as the hours drag on. The clouds themselves going from a soft white into indescribable patterns of greys and blacks.

an economy without money

An economy without money. Just think about it.

No one is forced to work; people do their jobs out of the kindness of their heart, just for the wellbeing of themselves and others. Need some food? Just go to the shop, pick it up, and walk out. You're not stealing. It was made for you, and everyone else.

There would be little to no thefts. Why steal something when it's free? Besides, if something's been stolen from you, you can simply go and pick up another one from the shop. Sure, the shop might be far, or maybe you won't have any of the things you've stored in your device, if any, but it's not the end of the world. And stealing from a shop is impossible; everything's free anyway.

What about spoilt brats? You can't really be a spoilt brat if everyone else is equal, and can get exactly what you have.

But who will build our roads? Fly our planes? Plant and harvest our food?

Anyone could. If only there were enough good in this world. If only we weren't at risk of people simply being evil or greedy. Because how can you be greedy if there's no money?

If only.

If only we lived in an economy without money.



It's all just a cycle, really.

We're born into this world, whether we want to or not, then we're sent to school.

Why? So we can get an education.

Why? So we can get a job.

Why? So we can earn money.

Why? So we can send our children, who we forced into this world just like our parents did to us, to school.

Why? So they can earn money.

And the cycle continues.


You said that you loved me, but that was all a lie, wasn't it? All I wanted from you was your love, but once you got me in bed a few times you threw me out like I was yesterday's trash. You said you cared and loved me, but you didn't. A few bumps in the relationship and you break up with me over text, telling me you still care about me. I don't believe you. I loved you; no... I love you and you broke me into a million shards. For the longest time, I have wanted you, for the longest time. But you left me. I let you in, I let my walls down, but I regret that now. I regret everything about us. But I can't get you out of my mind, because deep down I still love you and always will.


The room is dark. The curtains are drawn in a vain attempt to filter the orange glow of the streetlights illuminating the street outside. I glance at the digital clock at the side of my bed, the numbers 0225 glowing in a bright green. I sigh wearily. Unable to sleep, I sit upright on my bed, my legs outstretched and covered with my warm duvet. Nights like these are usually quiet, but it isn’t today, because the pitter-patter of rain lingers in the background, like the heartbeat of a mother that cocoons the fetus in her womb. It brings an odd sense of protection and safety along with it. It makes me feel somewhat less alone. Sometimes the rain goes pit-a-pat against the glass of my windows, often sounding like the gentle tapping of someone against it. Intrigued, I push a little bit of the heavy curtains and peek outside. Droplets of water streak down the window panes as it rains on. Odd, fluid shapes spiked at even odder angles that leave trails whenever they move downwards definitely are captivating sights for an insomniac at this time of the day. Through the rain I can make out the street outside. Everything is the same, only grayer and blurred with softer edges. Puddles of rain form in the potholes of the street, temporary homes for little creatures outside.


As I crossed into the attic, darkness engulfed even my silhouette. The dollar store flashlight illuminated the messy room: books scattered, antique furniture inches deep in dust, old paintings, cobweb covered walls. Claustrophobia washed over me from head to toe. The beams above were creaking as the storm winds howled - old, and wet from the frequent rainfall. Every moment I spent in the room seemed to be a temptation for the beams to collapse.

Nervous or Anxious

Her perfectly manicured hand rested on the doorknob of the tattoo parlour, the peeling white paint clinging to her clothes as she rested on the sagging doorframe. She turned to her friend. Bad idea. One glance spoke years of hidden grief. Her smoky eyes began to glint like the aftermath of a lightning strike. Clouds of grey threatened to flood, but she took a shuddering breath and gathered her strength. Turning towards the door now, she twisted the doorknob and pushed with the points of her fingernails, allowing the rush of cold air to paint the usual mask on her face.
Behind her, the morning yawn of Autumn brought a single white feather spiralling to a rest in the golden blanket that covered the cobblestone path.

a new relationship

"I can tell you how this is gonna go, but I'm begging you to prove me wrong. First we'll flirt and get close, then the closeness will trigger a panic in me I can't control and I'll go cold, like ice. I will retreat. I'll be careful not to cause damage because I have at least learnt that much. Then, when the fear of being hurt all over again has passed I'll come back to you, warm and affectionate, feeling guilty, feeling worried that I've lost you. It will look like 'fire and ice,' or 'push and pull,' but in truth it is an emotional wave that is painful and internal to me. I will know you are being kind, steady, perhaps confused. In the end, very few stick with me; but for those that do it is an eternal friendship and I would walk through fire and ice for those I love. So, throw a penny in a well, my love, and make a wish; I already did the same."


How could I become so indifferent to brutality, ferocity and savagery? Perhaps I strayed a little too far from the shores of reason.


In life, there are no chapters. You have no book to read, no story that shows much of a purpose. You have the ups and downs of life, yes, but when was there ever a book to read about you? There is no book dedicated to you. There is no book about your life story. If someone wants to know about it, they should stick by your side and ride along with you. Jennifer taught me this.

Jennifer is dead; where is her book? Where is that happy ending everyone was looking forward to? If her life started with, "In a land far, far away grew a beautiful baby girl," where was her happily ever after? It wasn't there. It was never to be there either. So why in the hell would there be a book for our lives when they don't end the right way, or the way they're suppose to?


The Darkness took everything. It sucked the glowing marrow from the campfires, plucked the stars from the sky like a land baron fingering grapes from the vine. Not even the sun was spared as it plunged to the ground never to return. The Darkness came and brought with it the haunts and spooks that gather at our doors at night pleading to be let in. We are abandoned now in this never ending night. We are the children Chroma forgot and have now become the play things of something long forgotten. We have killed the God of Light and something worse has replaced him.