My Cardboard Balcony

I tend to overthink things a lot. I tend to analyze, overanalyze, and then analyze the overanalysis. That being said, I tend to talk a lot about the same thing for a long time. Whether it's something that overtly fascinates me, worries me, terrifies me, or confuses me, I can keep at it for quite a while. It's a bit of a burden, actually. One I sometimes place on my family and friends. And at certain moments, it's unbearable for every party. It's one of the curses of being a writer. When you have an idea as a writer, utter devotion to that idea is essential. It becomes your bread and butter - your water to drink, your sleep, your breath, your love. If you lose one iota of passion for it, it can stay untouched for ages. It's happened to me many times before, though I can occasionally revisit a concept I may have lost touch with. The downside is sometimes you can't stop obsessing about an idea. Any idea. And it drives people mad. But it drives the writer the ...

Silver Fields by Belinda Roddie Feel the wind It touches your skin Brown as the soil From which fields of time Are not gold, but silver In their age It’s enough to make travelers bewildered The fields are my home Each stalk is an arm From which grows the wheat Their figures caress My face and my chest As I walk in the morning dew That forms in my eyes as tears Not ones of sorrow But drops of a new harvest tomorrow The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since August 6th, 2007.

Black swan, white swan, and gray swan all danced in a row on a brown stage. The composer leaned back and smiled with crooked teeth. The master of ballet himself balanced on the balls of his feet with excitement. Behind the curtains, the ensemble, all dressed in blue, waited for their moment to shine in front of the crowded, tailcoated, long-gowned audience, scrutinizing their art with tiny brass binoculars.