New one, In Orange Attitude
By: Reboo
email: rlw1985@hotmail.com or lngwp@oz.zzn.com
A/N: The title has nothing to do with the story, which really classifies as nothingness to a point. The title came from my Notebook an orange attitude notebook to be exact, and new one is what I apply to the top of the page on which I am starting a new story from in my notebook Which is always kept on hand in pocket, for fear of someone reading it who shouldn't be.
She shuffled in and sat down on her bed pulled the soft fluffy sheets around her, and turned off her lamp, that had been shedding a slight glow throughout her quaint bedroom. It was late, and she had had to tear herself away from the paperwork often required by her job. The computer screen had plagued her for long enough that day. Her body ached from having to sit in one chair for such a long position without movement. Ideas, thoughts, and emotions began to gnaw at her as soon as she let her tired head hit the pillow and had managed to have her eyes slide closed to catch some much needed sleep. She tossed in bed, rolling from one side to the other and back again, then laying flat on her back still not content. Her mind was keeping her from sleeping again, and it was making her irritable. Thoughts continuely flowed through her as they often did at night her pent up expressions from the day creeping into her evening thoughts, her subconcious, her dream world. They inhabited her being keeping her awake even when she did not wish it. Just laying there she could let her thoughts play out, whatever they might be, they could play themselves out and never make their way to paper or screen.
Letting her thoughts lay their, seemed like a waste however. They would not remain dormant most likely and there was no guarantee that they would ever return again. She layed there in bed on her back, arms straight at her side, legs spread out straight as well all the while keeping her eyes closed. Lately she had been lax in her writing, and her lack of expression did have a habit of realing its nasty head at bad times, and she would snap. Maybe she needed this. Whenever she had been caught typing on the computer or writitng on paper whether at work or at home and someone was around if it had not been work related she had received something very close to a flame for it.
Others seemed to believe there was no purpose in writing. They said it was only for records. How she yearned to prove them wrong, to show them just how much literature indirectly or directly impacted them. Literature was not meant to be simply a play thing but a thing to learn from as well, it had impacted many people over the course of time, a lot of the time through their leaders who were well read and educated in literary works and ideas.
She rolled over onto her side once more, pulling the blankets tightly around with her, making them keep her comfort no matter how much they refused to help. Sighing she raised her hand and turned on her light letting the lamp bathe the room in a cool yellow color starkly contrasting the night sky. Opening her eyes she began to let her hand rummage on top her nightstand looking for a spare notebook and a pencil, or pen which she found with ease after knocking over only one object which she swore to herself she would pick up later, but in her state of exhaustion she refused to do so.
Quietly she sat up and closed her eyes for a moment letting peace fall on her for a moment, before opening them. She bowed her head down letting bangs hang loosely over her face hiding it from the shadows that watched her. Thumbing through the pages of her previous writings she found a few blank pages one after the other, uncapped her pen and put the tip to the paper beginning to let it dance the ideas from her mind rolling freely out and making themselves concrete perceptions on the paper. The days, years, events, and experiences came out in her writings. All or most of her thoughts expressing her inner self, her utmost desires and opinions however controversial or dramatic. They all seemed to spill out into her writing making herself hidden within the writings.
By putting her thoughts into existence she eased her own mind and released all her pent up being that she had refused to be let out during the days courses which would have made them known unto others.
She never shared her writings. If she did she would be like an open book to them if they knew how to interpret things. The pages of her writings subtly concealed her soul. Each and every element in her stories contained a part of her, and her hopes, dreams, and darkest fears. For all she cared she could be writing at a kindergarten level, but she was writing, expressing herself, letting her be her, and that's all she truly wanted to do.
With her jolt of inspiration fading she recapped her pen, and closed her notebook laying both on the nightstand beside her lamp. Yawning she ran her hand down her face drawing it down, letting it put an end to the evenings events. Proceeding that she reached over and turned her light off. Now content she settled herself back into the fold of her bed, and drifted off to a wonderful now peaceful sleep. She'd have to start carrying one around more often, a notebook, even if only to keep her ideas from cluttering her head, and the eventual loss of them all together, or her sanity.
How she wished she could be accepted as a writer, by those dear to her, but none of them seemed to understand. Tommorrow always held the hope they would, and it was a hope she liked having however naive and misguided it might be. Maybe they would finally stop looking over her shoulder and reading aloud as she wrote, embarrasing her to no end, then criticizing on how foolish she was for what she chose to do.
A/N: Should I add more?
http://www.lngwp.20megsfree.com/index.html
By: Reboo
email: rlw1985@hotmail.com or lngwp@oz.zzn.com
A/N: The title has nothing to do with the story, which really classifies as nothingness to a point. The title came from my Notebook an orange attitude notebook to be exact, and new one is what I apply to the top of the page on which I am starting a new story from in my notebook Which is always kept on hand in pocket, for fear of someone reading it who shouldn't be.
She shuffled in and sat down on her bed pulled the soft fluffy sheets around her, and turned off her lamp, that had been shedding a slight glow throughout her quaint bedroom. It was late, and she had had to tear herself away from the paperwork often required by her job. The computer screen had plagued her for long enough that day. Her body ached from having to sit in one chair for such a long position without movement. Ideas, thoughts, and emotions began to gnaw at her as soon as she let her tired head hit the pillow and had managed to have her eyes slide closed to catch some much needed sleep. She tossed in bed, rolling from one side to the other and back again, then laying flat on her back still not content. Her mind was keeping her from sleeping again, and it was making her irritable. Thoughts continuely flowed through her as they often did at night her pent up expressions from the day creeping into her evening thoughts, her subconcious, her dream world. They inhabited her being keeping her awake even when she did not wish it. Just laying there she could let her thoughts play out, whatever they might be, they could play themselves out and never make their way to paper or screen.
Letting her thoughts lay their, seemed like a waste however. They would not remain dormant most likely and there was no guarantee that they would ever return again. She layed there in bed on her back, arms straight at her side, legs spread out straight as well all the while keeping her eyes closed. Lately she had been lax in her writing, and her lack of expression did have a habit of realing its nasty head at bad times, and she would snap. Maybe she needed this. Whenever she had been caught typing on the computer or writitng on paper whether at work or at home and someone was around if it had not been work related she had received something very close to a flame for it.
Others seemed to believe there was no purpose in writing. They said it was only for records. How she yearned to prove them wrong, to show them just how much literature indirectly or directly impacted them. Literature was not meant to be simply a play thing but a thing to learn from as well, it had impacted many people over the course of time, a lot of the time through their leaders who were well read and educated in literary works and ideas.
She rolled over onto her side once more, pulling the blankets tightly around with her, making them keep her comfort no matter how much they refused to help. Sighing she raised her hand and turned on her light letting the lamp bathe the room in a cool yellow color starkly contrasting the night sky. Opening her eyes she began to let her hand rummage on top her nightstand looking for a spare notebook and a pencil, or pen which she found with ease after knocking over only one object which she swore to herself she would pick up later, but in her state of exhaustion she refused to do so.
Quietly she sat up and closed her eyes for a moment letting peace fall on her for a moment, before opening them. She bowed her head down letting bangs hang loosely over her face hiding it from the shadows that watched her. Thumbing through the pages of her previous writings she found a few blank pages one after the other, uncapped her pen and put the tip to the paper beginning to let it dance the ideas from her mind rolling freely out and making themselves concrete perceptions on the paper. The days, years, events, and experiences came out in her writings. All or most of her thoughts expressing her inner self, her utmost desires and opinions however controversial or dramatic. They all seemed to spill out into her writing making herself hidden within the writings.
By putting her thoughts into existence she eased her own mind and released all her pent up being that she had refused to be let out during the days courses which would have made them known unto others.
She never shared her writings. If she did she would be like an open book to them if they knew how to interpret things. The pages of her writings subtly concealed her soul. Each and every element in her stories contained a part of her, and her hopes, dreams, and darkest fears. For all she cared she could be writing at a kindergarten level, but she was writing, expressing herself, letting her be her, and that's all she truly wanted to do.
With her jolt of inspiration fading she recapped her pen, and closed her notebook laying both on the nightstand beside her lamp. Yawning she ran her hand down her face drawing it down, letting it put an end to the evenings events. Proceeding that she reached over and turned her light off. Now content she settled herself back into the fold of her bed, and drifted off to a wonderful now peaceful sleep. She'd have to start carrying one around more often, a notebook, even if only to keep her ideas from cluttering her head, and the eventual loss of them all together, or her sanity.
How she wished she could be accepted as a writer, by those dear to her, but none of them seemed to understand. Tommorrow always held the hope they would, and it was a hope she liked having however naive and misguided it might be. Maybe they would finally stop looking over her shoulder and reading aloud as she wrote, embarrasing her to no end, then criticizing on how foolish she was for what she chose to do.
A/N: Should I add more?
http://www.lngwp.20megsfree.com/index.html