Stream of consciousness writing
Sick Puppy
Registrant
I tried this... it's interesting. I think it can show you a lot about yourself. What you do is that you give yourself a set amount of time (I used 20 minutes) and you just write whatever comes to mind. Don't stop for a second and don't worry about the right wording. This is what I came up with. It's long but I think it is interesting. It filled 3 1/2 pages written, but my handwriting is kind of large when it's rushed.
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Josh and Dave go down by the pond and feed the ducks. Somewhere a night sky is billowing with smoke. Under the milky way he asks for another chance at that dream which he had for years and years of his otherwise uneventful life. I do not speak your language says Josh and lies down in the sand. The water is like a cushion of nothingness under a void of black air. The stars blink like cheating lovers sending secret messages to one another. The ground falls out from under them. The earth is still. Where did I leave my letters to God says Dave and falls into that eternal trap from which nothing escapes. It is called surrender. The letters are burning in a wood stove somewhere in the mountains where a woman lives with her baby son. In the summer wildflowers bloom and the child runs among them as he grows older with the years and never learns his name. Josh has dreams of those moments when a trap door opens in his brain and lets the images of another world enter his jaded mind. Who are we to speak of the stars he says and lays a silk curtain over the sky until dawn comes like a dripping watercolor mixing with sawdust to create a vivid hue. A requiem of sorts for the days when they could be carefree and follow the shards of the Moonlight Sonata to a somber eerie funeral dance and still come out smiling. Somewhere there is a counterpart to the happy child in the woods and he lies down at night wondering if he will be alive in the morning when the light comes through the window across the floor to his bed and touches his aching body as if to say today is another year gone by and you are still just an hour older. They remember those days like still frames on a movie screen like the time when the projectionist fell asleep and did not change the reels and that last split-second frame of video was burned in your mind forever. That is what those days were like. They could replace them carefully with scissors and tape of those dancing wildflower songs and the boy in the mountains but the color would never be just right and they would wonder if the images were real. They never quite matched up to the rest of the world. Oh the rabbit hole goes for miles doesn't it says the ghost that stands three feet from the graves and follows them like a locomotive wherever they go. The hole goes for miles and in places is more like a tunnel with that dripping water sound and slimy walls and that sense of being so far underground. We laughed our way through that tunnel but it echoed around us and made us feel small. Inside the rotting houses on that ghost town's street were fragments of memories, something that those once-people had left behind and never came back for. Still in those hours of darkness and twilight they speak to us and send messages of a place that we can't quite reach yet. It is as if we are blindfolded and reaching in the air before us for a thing that is just a little too far away. Someday our arms will grow and we will stand tall on our own and we will be alone in a long vast hallway like that of a hospital and the world will be silent and the doorways will not exist like they would in a ward and there are no whispers or groans of pain. Somewhere in that world are the faces and voices of those people we forgot but whose memories still infest the waters of our oceans and our deep dark waters in the center of our minds. Who is that man in the suit, he says subdued, who is that tall pale man, his face looks familiar as if I had seen it in a dream. His face looks as if I had sung myself to sleep with it nearby, watching. I cannot put a voice to that image. I cannot think of any words. Yes he says I know it that this man is my father. I would speak to him now but he understands no language. He is one of those who wander the earth in a prophecy of madness. Someday the bombs will drop and no one will have finished living. That is the way we do things. Leisure has no meaning and it is no good if it is not cut short. Whisper into someone's ear at night and see if they respond. See if they remember in the morning. Then you can tell them they were spoken to by God and they can die complete. An illusion is better than reality when you must fill a void. Sometimes there is nothing to do but smile and say everything will be alright as the atom bombs fall from the dead summer sky and the world goes at once to dust.
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Josh and Dave go down by the pond and feed the ducks. Somewhere a night sky is billowing with smoke. Under the milky way he asks for another chance at that dream which he had for years and years of his otherwise uneventful life. I do not speak your language says Josh and lies down in the sand. The water is like a cushion of nothingness under a void of black air. The stars blink like cheating lovers sending secret messages to one another. The ground falls out from under them. The earth is still. Where did I leave my letters to God says Dave and falls into that eternal trap from which nothing escapes. It is called surrender. The letters are burning in a wood stove somewhere in the mountains where a woman lives with her baby son. In the summer wildflowers bloom and the child runs among them as he grows older with the years and never learns his name. Josh has dreams of those moments when a trap door opens in his brain and lets the images of another world enter his jaded mind. Who are we to speak of the stars he says and lays a silk curtain over the sky until dawn comes like a dripping watercolor mixing with sawdust to create a vivid hue. A requiem of sorts for the days when they could be carefree and follow the shards of the Moonlight Sonata to a somber eerie funeral dance and still come out smiling. Somewhere there is a counterpart to the happy child in the woods and he lies down at night wondering if he will be alive in the morning when the light comes through the window across the floor to his bed and touches his aching body as if to say today is another year gone by and you are still just an hour older. They remember those days like still frames on a movie screen like the time when the projectionist fell asleep and did not change the reels and that last split-second frame of video was burned in your mind forever. That is what those days were like. They could replace them carefully with scissors and tape of those dancing wildflower songs and the boy in the mountains but the color would never be just right and they would wonder if the images were real. They never quite matched up to the rest of the world. Oh the rabbit hole goes for miles doesn't it says the ghost that stands three feet from the graves and follows them like a locomotive wherever they go. The hole goes for miles and in places is more like a tunnel with that dripping water sound and slimy walls and that sense of being so far underground. We laughed our way through that tunnel but it echoed around us and made us feel small. Inside the rotting houses on that ghost town's street were fragments of memories, something that those once-people had left behind and never came back for. Still in those hours of darkness and twilight they speak to us and send messages of a place that we can't quite reach yet. It is as if we are blindfolded and reaching in the air before us for a thing that is just a little too far away. Someday our arms will grow and we will stand tall on our own and we will be alone in a long vast hallway like that of a hospital and the world will be silent and the doorways will not exist like they would in a ward and there are no whispers or groans of pain. Somewhere in that world are the faces and voices of those people we forgot but whose memories still infest the waters of our oceans and our deep dark waters in the center of our minds. Who is that man in the suit, he says subdued, who is that tall pale man, his face looks familiar as if I had seen it in a dream. His face looks as if I had sung myself to sleep with it nearby, watching. I cannot put a voice to that image. I cannot think of any words. Yes he says I know it that this man is my father. I would speak to him now but he understands no language. He is one of those who wander the earth in a prophecy of madness. Someday the bombs will drop and no one will have finished living. That is the way we do things. Leisure has no meaning and it is no good if it is not cut short. Whisper into someone's ear at night and see if they respond. See if they remember in the morning. Then you can tell them they were spoken to by God and they can die complete. An illusion is better than reality when you must fill a void. Sometimes there is nothing to do but smile and say everything will be alright as the atom bombs fall from the dead summer sky and the world goes at once to dust.