DAY 7- 30 Day Writing Challenge

I have impressed myself – I have managed a week on my writing challenge!! I need more challenges or prompts- so please throw them in my direction Comment on the original post with your suggestions- I can’t wait to read them!

Today’s challenge comes courtesy of Tamara Yancosky “I’m not sure if you’re still doing this, but I was going to suggest writing a short story, poem, or quote using metaphors.”

Metaphor- Falling- Pixabay

I have a cloudy memory but I’ve always been drowning in cotton candy words. I tried to put my finger on what I needed to say, only to end up adrift, or  worse; shooting the messenger. Nothing was ever shipshape and Bristol fashion, and so often I would beat a dead horse. Sure, I knew the ropes, I swam in the sea of knowledge, but cold feet would haunt me until the bitter end. My minds eye; a melting pot of swirling thoughts, cascading; a butterfly effect of narratives and heartfelt words. My salad days squandered on being a couch potato. I dreamt about the infinite spectrum of possibilities  but there were always shades of hope that I would be a late bloomer.  

But night was falling, and necessity is the mother of invention so I knuckled down and went head-to-head with my demons. I was a lion of the battlefield, and though it was not all plain sailing, I was out of the doldrums. Soon I would hit my stride. I’d be on the path of glory, No more would my  be an albatross around my neck. I would finally be able to put my stamp on something. I was awash with copper-bottomed gems that gave me food for thought. I had nailed my colours to the mast. 

But was I breaking a butterfly upon a wheel? Was I just a turkey voting for Christmas? Was it so hard to swallow that I could ever be a big shot? The stubborn stains of my past doubts would not wash out. Had I jumped the gun with this different tack? Was I destined to always be left high and dry? By and large I hoped to weather the storm. But the cat was out of the bag, the elephant in the room was that I am a boiling frog. In this chicken and egg situation, my broken heart would forever skip a beat at the Hobson’s choice that would hinge between the holy grail of my innermost thoughts, or the blanket of indifference that I would forever wrap myself in. 

Destined for an endless night with a battle of egos, my internal monologue was a house of cards built on sinking sand. My ideas like water flowing into a sea of sorrows.

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