Writing Prompt 3

Today, use all of your senses to paint a word picture. Pick an everyday item. Describe it using 5 visual descriptions, 4 tactile descriptions, three audial descriptions, 2 olfactory descriptions, and 1 description on how it might taste. 


It’s raining outside right now as I turn away from my work to write down what I missed yesterday. A sense of foreboding sits behind my heart as I look out into the dreary that has taken the outside. Shame. I was going to do my yoga in the park later on, then perform a ritual later on. 

Inside this apartment I live in, I sit in a half shadow of darkness as some light illuminates the kitchen, reminding me of the terrible habit of leaving the lights on wherever I go. Something about the shadows intimidates me, especially with three cats abound in this place that meow when their owner is not home, seeking attention when I’m trying to work. Yet even in this darkened living room, not a one is to be seen. 

The rain outside thumps against the sidewalk and the remnants from the roof pour onto the grey concrete outside, seeming like someone on top is releasing a series of buckets, washing downwards the filth that has accumulated since the last storm. It’s getting to be that time around here when rain is common, the cold will creep in, and I will be staring out the window into an eerily quiet night where the silence is unsettling. But for now, the rain comes with the harmonic rhythm in accompaniment with the piano music lifting and singing out of my speakers. The empty plates with yesterday’s breakfast and today’s lunch await my pickup to be placed into the washer. But the rain could just as easily discard the remaining food from my previous meals. A symbol I guess of things left unfinished, a dream eaten that would provide some sustenance until my body demands food again. 

A sigh sounds from between my own lips as I ponder about the rain, the piano, the empty plates that I surround myself with. The papers of seminars past, my planner demanding my attention to get what I need accomplished before the end of my so-called day. Another social engagement tonight. Another nightmare to anticipate. 

Wherever did my moments of solitude go? My own distractions that surround me in the floating music, the rhythmic rain, and the clattering of my absent minded typing when I know fully well there’s a report to be written, ads to be redone, articles to write. The white stark background of my own computer screen just bolts into my brain the stagnant starchy near meaningless contentment I have garnered that reflects little value into what my own actions are. What am I do without some sort of proof that I am performing as I should? Is it truly my fault that my own distractions get the better of me when I should be working for the money that my friends are investing in me? Why do I feel so empty despite my life working as thus? Remotely, maybe isolated. 

My own fingers have the skin peeled off. I feel the smoothness beneath my callused hands and the thick pads my fingers have gotten over the years, especially after the past few months. I feel the irreverent lack of self respect with each callus that sits on my palm. Day after day forcing some sort of exercise on my own body because it’s the only thing I seem to be able to control in this hurricane that is my life. However isolated I might physically be during the day has no bearing to what it is like in my own head. 

I think I lost track of where this was going. My own words and thoughts appearing empty, wasted even as I struggle to keep to my own senses. The distinct odiferous scent of cat litter has now overpowered the smoky yet earthy smell of what my lunch was. Comingling with the ammonia like stench of the felines now distracts me further from my own work that I know needs to be completed. Why do these animals distract me so, even if one of them I am starting to like as I have now lived here for several months. 

It almost makes me weep to think of what all my own network of friends has done for me: a roof away from the wet rain, a job to make sure I continue to eat as I physically grow stronger. Why? All I ever do is listen to people. Is that… really what we all are missing in this world, is just someone to listen and validate the rest of us? I am no hero for having ears to hear the melodies of the stories I hear. I am not a heroine for listening to the psalms of those I meet. It’s no special talent I have, and even then, it takes much effort to even remember half the things I hear. I feel as though I need to start carrying around a recorder and ask people if I can record what they tell me. I can only imagine the refreshing taste of a new perspective to play with the tastebuds of others. Surely the flavor is the same, but everyone reacts differently. Everyone has a different note to play on their interpretation of it. Will it be ice cream that melts in your mouth, coating sweet cream across the palette into an ambrosial bliss? Or will it mark bitter like grapefruit, the acidity of it denting the overall experience? Refreshing and brightening like mint, or sour like lemon but turning into a kiss of a candied memory?

Or will our story change to be as dead and lifeless as cardboard? Becoming stiff with lines and carrying imprints and ink of different varieties, shouting something to be noticed, but really just a hollow package, or carrying something just as lifeless inside? What will we see, hear, feel, smell, and taste that will complement this thing that we are dealing with? How will we proceed?  



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