Another attempt at free writing. I don’t quite get it, because whenever I start writing, it just turns into a journal entry and I don’t think that’s the point.
What’s the point in writing something if it doesn’t make any sense?
Writing truthfully, letting my thoughts fill up the pages without filtering them… But there are thoughts I would like to hide even from myself.
I opened the door and took a deep breath. It’s getting cold, but I smell new fragrances in the air. As I’m looking at the apples that fell on the ground, I remembered a quote from Stephen King’s book “Bag of Bones”.
Perhaps sometimes ghosts were alive – minds and desires divorced from their bodies, unlocked impulses floating unseen.
It just popped up in my mind. And I start thinking about how weird the mind works. Our own heads can be the scariest place to live. How could I remember that? What triggered it?
I found no answers, but since then, ghosts of past autumns began haunting me.
Writing, Reading, Living, but mostly Hiding 