My first thought for this post was to write about the experience of taking a nap on a damp picnic table. 

My second thought for this post was, “Is that enough?”

My third thought for this post was everything cluttered inside my brain.

As I sit at this keyboard, my skull feels like a bog of allergies and stuffiness, yet my heart beats with the urge to create so fiercely that I feel my chest melting. My fingers feel somewhat electric at the bone, and I want to write everything. I do not yearn for coherence. I want to feel the worn plastic of the keyboard bend beneath my fingertips as I write everything without a care. I want to break into sprawling prose about the raindrops pattering onto concrete after a storm, I want to write about the moments of bliss on the picnic table as I heard the world around me, I want to write the orange and textured beat that is playing in the background, I want to write map ideas for a project, I want to write- It would all jump from one topic to the next, thoughts blending together in impulsive dialogue and handmade quotes. It would mention a character’s unamused glare in a spiral of nature descriptors, observing the jumbled vines of words for one reason or another. It would describe how it feels to flex your hands above your head, with the joints stretching and skin pressing into muscles, before detailing the wooden window blinds in front of me and how they might taste. It would go on about the feeling of wiping up dust on the pad of your thumb, then break down into bullet points on worldbuilding and gods. It would wonder if my mind sounds as enthralling as I think it to be, or if I am living in the emotion of writing  too much, and go on a whole page spiel on the undermining of emotions. It would branch into the feeling of a warm embrace through the eyes of another being, then the eyes of a moth begging for the attention of a lantern. It would bubble up with sci fi horror, as wishing for the lantern’s attention is the equivalent of knocking on death’s door, then simmer down as I sternly think about frigidness seeping through the moths exoskeleton. It would leave me with a page of incoordination. It would leave me with a page I would love dearly. Despite it all, it would leave me a page that would make me wonder: 

“Is that enough?”

Author: Amelia Whitaker

I write my heart desires, regardless of the weirdness and absurdity, and fully believe others should do the same. I’ll read anything as long as it catches my eye, but my favorite genre is sci-fi, especially if it goes heavy on science, though I also enjoy fantasy. I adore researching and learning about all sorts of things- biology, space, evolution, history, culture, and more!

3 thoughts on “Wondering”

  1. The detail in here is so edible, like the way you describe things are so tasty. My favorite line was when you describe music as orange and textured.

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