Looks like my photo from yesterday didn’t upload so I’ll attempt again when I’m home, but for day two: a place to hide.
This is a picture inside one of the booths at my campus radio station. It’s a place that I physically go to hide from the hustle and bustle on campus, and where I can recharge. It’s also a lot more than that. Music is where I go to hide from the world. I may hide what I’m feeling or thinking from others, but it’s always conveyed in what I’m listening to or creating. Music helps me deal with life, but also helps me shut out the world for a little bit and just breathe. It helps me feel emotions instead of ignore them, and it holds memories both good and bad. I hide bits and pieces of who I am when no ones around, when the mask comes off, in the music I create.
So yeah, lots of meaning I attach to things, and your daily dose of oversharing.
Hard to take a photo of it, but there are some shifts I like to be the “riser troll” (a term I came up with for it) essentially hiding from a lot of the lifting involved those days
When something is hidden, it is kept secret from others in order to protect it, usually because the hidden thing has great importance to the person hiding it.
A few years ago I came into possession of a few fake books, my first and favorite being this copy of Moby Dick. Originally I used them to hide random belongings, but over time, my core: things that were representative of my passions.
This “book” is a place of hiding for my treasured notes and tokens of our magiqal journey, so that they may persist and remind me of who I am and what keeps me going.
Growing up, Scouting was where I hid from the issues I had at home and even as I approached the end of my time as a youth member, working on Camp Staph, it was a way to hide from the real world. Camp Joy is one of my favorite places, because it’s not fancy, it has more than it’s fair share of issues, but it is simple, it is worn from use, decades of scouts making memories and friendships. When times get tough, to this day, I continue to go out and just sit and remember, and hide away for a little while.
Day 3:
Letters unsent, words unseen,
Hearing nothing, but understanding everything.
The silence from a blank page or an empty mailbox is deafening
the story stalls, with pages unwritten
the silence speaks volumes
and our hearts break.
…
But then the moment passes.
The story starts again.
And the world turns.
Avis Green’s journal. The pages have been blank since that night when we captured as many of the entries as we could, but I keep it within reach on my desk just in case. We know without a doubt now that words were once written here, only to be unwritten in the most literal and inexplicable sense. I only hope the information we gathered was enough.
She walks among the oaks,
and they know her as Wren. Though that is not her name.
She wore an amber necklace, which held no magic or merit but the trees took it as a sign of divinity.
She wears a dagger on her belt, forged by a friend and never used in battle.
She carries it to show the trees that she is not their delicate princess, and the trees know that to be true. She is a warrior who has been blessed to not see war, she is a queen whose throne is only in the branches of a treehouse. She is a queen none the less.
(A character I used to tell a lot of stories about to my younger cousins, but never actually used in writing)
From yesterday’s prompt (written yesterday but was too tired to post).
Despite my hero-worship of him, I never truly felt like I knew him. He held himself distant from me; always with kindness, but apart all the same. I never got the impression it had anything to do with me. Everyone is entitled to their secrets, and I tried hard to respect that. I didn’t always succeed, of course. Sometimes I would witness, in moments he thought I wasn’t looking, the great sadness he carried around with him, usually hidden behind his gentle eyes and smile. And I’d get curious despite my good intentions.
There were times I’d catch him at his desk late in the night staring down at a piece of unmarred stationery, with a look so full of feeling that it gave me pause. Across his desk there’d be an envelope and his personal seal, prepared to give the message a proper send-off. But he never wrote a word. Not even a name. There was a terrible sorrow in watching him slowly recap his pen and set it aside, pushing away from the desk. I never knew who it was that he could not bring himself to write that letter to.
