The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth


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Cries of a Traveller’s Heart

If I stand too still for too long, I can hear the whisper of the world,
The softened hush of lands undiscovered and stories untold
Begging me to leave behind my life and run away.
If I pause even momentarily, I can see in the back of my mind,
The daring adventure of sunsets to see and people to find
And I smile slowly to myself- ‘One day.’
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The Red-Haired Storyteller

I saw her today for the first time in a while. She passed me on the street, and before we were close I could see her eyes flicker with recognition she tried to hide, a quick blush falling to her cheeks; she remembered, but she was trying not to show it.

Suddenly, she turned and crossed the road, her steps gaining pace as she put distance between us. I stopped and watched her anxious departing back for a few seconds before turning to move on, and for a while I forgot about her.
It was only when I was sitting absent-mindedly by the duck pond much later that her face flickered before me. While the sun glinted through cracks in the leaves and spilt dappled drops of light across my shirt, I thought of the girl with the bright red hair, the most magnificent storyteller I had ever seen.
She was a girl with a mouth like a crafter’s wheel, spinning enchanting stories laced with gold and wearing them proudly. But when we held these garments to the sunlight they did not glint, but disintegrated in the sun. Nothing more than cheap metal, we watched her tales rust and crumble in our hands.
She was a girl whose stories glided out of her mouth like a midsummer’s breeze, gentle and enticing. They carried the sweet, soft smell of adventure, enticing us with curious eyes that we blindly followed. But they only ever led us to a dead-end path where adventure lay battered and bruised in the soil, an abandoned play-thing from a long finished game.
She was a girl with eyes that glistened when she spoke and danced like fireflies in a sea of midnight every time she opened her mouth. Her stories were like precious gems that she held to her heart like a mother, but when we teased them from her prised fingers, we found they were fakes, only real within her own head.
This girl created extravagant stories like an artist designs their finest piece or a writer fabricates their fantasy world. She painted oceans and starlit skies for us, and for a while so convincingly, until the bulbs began to burst and we realised we were only staring at a faded ceiling. She brought to life a beautiful world that we tried to live in, but we knew this world was a lie even if she didn’t realise it.
I skimmed my shoe across the surface of the water and sighed. The girl had gone too far now; her stories were too impossible, her tongue too powerful. In her constant chase of adventure she’d fallen onto a broken path that was too high to reach even if we’d wanted to. But she was ignorant in her chase, skipping along over cracks and humming a simple melody to herself. And all the while she stared hypnotised at her fake ceiling sky, oblivious to the crumbling path below her. It was only a matter of time before the foundations of her stories caved in, and she drowned in a pit of lies before we ever had a chance of saving her.


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Tuesday’s Inspiration #5- Where My Feet Will Take Me

This week I’ve decided to go for another picture prompt, as these work well for me:

Tell the story of journeys you’ve been on from the perspective of your feet. Where have you been? Where are you going? Tell their story. Happy writing!


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Tuesday’s Inspiration #2- Adventure Afoot!

'And here the path ended, and their journey began.'

‘And here the path ended, and their journey began.’

This week’s prompt is all about adventuring. Use this line in a poem or postcard story (up to 150 words maximum) to inspire yourself. Who is on the path? What are they leaving behind? And more importantly, what are they heading towards? Be sure to link me to your work via comments or the Feedback page- happy writing!


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Longing of Escaping

I want to read,
Slip from library corners into pools of words,
Feel adventure flood my veins,
As dog-eared, leafed through pages,
Gently beckon me in.

I want to run,
Stopping when paths end and breath falls short,
Exist only as a thudding heartbeat,
The breath of a ragged sigh,
And raindrops dancing off skin.

I want to sleep,
Fall through the arch of eyelids fluttering closed,
Watch as time ticks slow,
Dreams bursting in blooms of light,
Casting shadows on a cold, cluttered mind.


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The Curious Ones

I have a love for the curious ones in this life. I find the world a fascinating place full of mystery and adventure just waiting to be uncovered and explored, and finding someone who sees the world in that same way is an amazing thing to me. I love people who question the world and how it works, people who are keen to learn and explore and experience. I love people who reach out in the dark and grasp at the unknown, ready to face whatever they find. I love the glint in their eyes which are always moving to and fro, taking in every nook, cranny and crevice; I love how a question is always on the tip of their tongue, lips curled into an awestruck gentle smile. I love their giddy excitement for new things, their eagerness to try something new and relish in change. I love how they view the world around them with such questioning eyes and the more I grow to know them, the more I begin to see the world in the curiously intricate way they do. I soon fall in love with their world, and in a little way, with them too.