WRITING AS A HOBBY.
My thoughts in words.
Since I was little, I always loved writing and reading. My world is surrounded by both of them. The world was too quiet back then. I don’t have many friends. My dad used to be a workaholic while my mom was not close enough to her children. In the old days, we fill the loneliness of our days by reading books. Writing a diary is also a cliché kids do, and it keeps continuing from kids, into teenage, and until now. Telling random things in front of someone is like exposing my vulnerability, which I am never comfortable with. I always show myself behind words.
I let go of the messed thoughts that stay in my head and let them be into complete sentences, which later gives me satisfaction.
I personally enjoy the slow-pacing thing; waking up, cleaning, reading a book, scrolling Twitter, and running errands, but disappearing the writing thing in my daily activities indeed makes me lonelier. I still trying to figure out which one is the best way for me.
In the end, we as human beings always try what is best for us. Here, I am slowly trying to write the messy raw thought in a post. Perhaps, later I will encourage you to do a small step in my book. Little by little it will be a whole finished work
About the Creator
Catherine Nyomenda
I love writing. I love the swirl of words as they tangle with human emotions. I am a flexible writer and can write almost anything, do you need any help creating content? Well then, get in touch...
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More stories from Catherine Nyomenda and writers in Poets and other communities.
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly3 days ago in Horror
Comments (1)
I loved reading and writing since I was a kid too! Your experiences were somewhat relatable to mine as well!