The Writer

Dreamer: n.  one who deep-sea dives in the ocean of thought; one whose thoughts percolate like tea or coffee; prone to flights, fernweh, sonder and hiraeth with a touch of the absentminded.

I love watching the sky turn to flame.   I love the crawling, numinous fear of walking by a pounding sea when the sand is illuminated by the silver disc until where it meets the salt spray.  I love pressure change, the thunder in the sky, the sky about to rain, and the gaping spate of rock called mountains.  I ache for people I miss, places I’ve been, and the song that isn’t finished that I walk out every day.  I love to remember the thin pale blue that goes up for miles above spaces that I’ve walked.  I long for the Reckoning, the day made right.  My hope rests in the fact that He came back.

I love finding a new friend, hugs, and hopping around on one foot and almost shouting about astrophysics and not having to laugh at myself.  I love the way the stars burn blue in South Georgia.  I loved seeing the rocket launches, and the snowfall after a night that was Full.  I love the sharp sip of words well chosen and siphoned through until the grip of essence finds them.  I love looking for souls.  I love stepping out and finding Home.  I love belonging, and the fierce sense that couples it that there are more places to go.

I prattle and giggle along with small children.  I pretend to speak baby.  My eyes are old sometimes, from living, and nothing makes me cry like Love.  Stars and fireflies make me stop and stare, every time.  I throw my head back when I laugh, before doubling over with delight.  I love camping, and crashing through the woods and sprinting over rocks in a way I can only do when it counts.  I want to run around in the stars on the back of the North Wind.  I chase a tapestry of spiraling woven glass through the storm.  I love colours, and those days when I don’t despise my fractured vision.  I live for the moments when I see the tree with the lights on it.

Summer Rain and falling music are my favorite adventures as of late, along with hiding behind a camera and trying to show the world pieces of what I see.  I like to understand people’s minds and hearts.  I’ve been drawn to stories ever since I can remember. I was born reading. I write novellas, novels, poetry, and will master the art of screenplay in my studies at Oglethorpe University.  I seek to excel in ostranenie, though sometimes I find I’ve fashioned adoxography.

Welcome to my thoughts, such as they are.  The ride is like a Tilt-a-Whirl, so hang on to the handlebars and watch the color-patches blur.  After all, we’re spinning at Mach 87 this very second.  All credit to Him; I simply attempt to stack the words. So put up your feet and read my tales if you like, or spin me one of your own.  We’re all stories in the end.  Feel free to leave me a comment or email me at lizkirkwoodstories [at] gmail [dot] com.

Oh, and welcome to the storm.

12 thoughts on “The Writer

  1. I stumbled upon your blog through some series of links and I’m very glad I did. You write beautifully. And as a bonus, it looks like we enjoy many of the same things. 🙂 Look forward to following your creative endeavors!

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