Sculpture

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De cet amas de pierre

Dans la roche taillée

Que l’artiste si fier

Admire émerveillé,

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Les formes et contours,

Les ombres et lumières

-Ces naturels atours

Dont elle est coutumière-,

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Exaltent un corps figé

De l’espace et du temps,

Éternel mouvement

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Dans l’immobile instant;

Reflet d’âme piégée

Dans un brillant moment.

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What you write is not what you are…

Well not always anyway.

A writer doesn’t always write about how they feel or about how they think or view the world, not exactly. Writing isn’t always an open letter to one’s soul. Sometimes it’s less than that: Just a fun way of escaping daily thinking and routine. Or more than that, like a profound analysis of one’s psychology, moods and soul. But other times it’s something different, something that isn’t exactly them (or me or you), something that fills us, that passes through us, that uses us as a means of reaching others.

Sometimes, for a writer, writing is a vessel for foreign emotions. Fabricated emotions, borrowed emotions, emotions that are empathized… Emotions that aren’t ours, that do not belong to us but that we feel anyways. A writer acts a bit like a channel for these emotions.

I am not sad or happy, I don’t feel trapped or wings grow just because I write so. Perhaps I do, perhaps I don’t. Perhaps a bit of both. Perhaps not. Writing is a mash of a lot of things and a bit of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff that we don’t always understand or think or feel but that we put into words anyways because it seems the moment to do so.

Writing is something you do to express yourself but not necessarily to express your self. This is something important that I have learned by participating in writing classes: never consider the protagonist of a story (or the subject or theme of a story) as the writer themselves. Try to think of it more like a mirror, a projection, something the writer decided to write about and that is dear to them, holds meaning, but doesn’t define them. The point of view of a character in a story is not the point of view of the author, so it is not to be refered as so.

True, as an author your ideas, thoughts and opinions often end up in your characters but that doesn’t mean that everything the story expresses is what the author wants to express or tries to convey. Sometimes, when writing, one even conveys things they didn’t even want to convey. Art is made to make people feel, think and reflect. Sometimes it expresses ideas but always remember, art and artists are a very clearly separate duo, even if they are completely fused together.

This was just a small rant to try to clarify this for all of humanity. Here’s the tl;dr you have to learn from this: ‘I am not what I write. Mostly.’. Maybe it sounds stupid, unnecessary or incomprehensible (I apologize if it does) but I felt it was something important to say and I wanted to express it.

Thank you for reading and understanding.

Writing Prompt #2


Something ‘mist-eerie-ous’. A short story revolving around mist and its mysteries.


Here is another prompt that I am putting out there for you people to get inspired and write about.

As usual, you can writer in whatever format you want, whether it’s poetry, short story, dialogue, et caetera, et caetera… It can be long, short or anything in-between these two. You are free to do what you want.

Once again, if you want to share it with me you can always send it to me by email via my contact page, or in the comments if you are comfortable with sharing it publicly.

I will try my best to give you feedback on whatever you have written.

I will be participating to this prompt too, you’ll see my work pop up during the week on my blog.

You have until Sunday this week (18/09/2016) to work on this and send it to me, no more, no less.

I hope you’ll have fun!

Get ready, set… write!

My answer to this prompt : The man in the mist


The first writing prompt I offered.

A song

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There is a song that is old, that is new,

There is a song that is cold, that is wet,

One made of precious hard gold, heaven’s brew,

One that is, though often told, hard to get,

Melody many times fold, life and death,

Harmony at the threshold, one more breath,

Oh giving strength to those bold and those not,

They, who break out of the mold or are wrought,

A tune that has long been rolled, mouth to ear,

A tune all witness unfold, there to here.

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Bit by bit

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One step, two steps, ten steps,

A hundred and then a thousand steps,

One mile, two miles, ten miles,

And then a hundred thousand miles,

Bit by bit, little by little

No matter how fragile, how brittle,

Build up your dreams and your future,

Choose your path and carefully nurture…

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Im my box

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Yes my dear! Now please pull that lever over there,

Turn the faucet, flip the switch and punch in the time,

Switch on the light and close the door, oh but beware!

Do not touch the breaks, I love hearing that sweet chime…

I’ve seen many a thing, met many a being,

So tell me now my dear, and don’t hold on your breath,

Anywhere, anytime: of what are you dreaming?

Come, let’s run together, through time, space, even death!

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Night cargo

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I’ve got this machine in my head,

Thudding tempest of my dread

I can’t stop it, I cannot flee,

It runs continuously,

Leitmotiv behind the curtain

Going round and round again,

Suppressing every other sound

In the darkness all around,

White noise amplified by the chug,

Rocking sea turns into drug,

I’m going mad, I want to scream,

Sanity goes up in steam…

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Paint me like one of your french girls

It was blue, it had always been blue. So why not?

The thought had occurred to me like a self-evidence. A statement that needed no explanation or demonstration, a universal truth. Or what should have been a universal truth. Unfortunately, things weren’t the same over here, they didn’t understand them like we do.

It had been weird at first, difficult to believe and to get used to even. But over time it got easier, it almost became normal. They needed my help for basic things, things that might be easy even for one of our young souls but which, for them, even adults couldn’t do…

I tries my best, helping when I could, explaining when I couldn’t, trying to teach them a few tricks to get by more easily. It got slightly better but not by much, that was their existence and There wasn’t a lot I could do to change it…

I could see something they couldn’t and they idolized me for it. Not all of them, but a majority. Not that I really wanted this. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you view things, I made a few mistakes, that made them realize that perhaps I wasn’t so perfect…

They started doubting me a bit more, questioning, which was good, that ways they would become curious and look for answers on their own. Maybe even fond them. It took some time for me to really win their trust as a normal person and not as some messenger of a vengeful god… But I manager it, slowly but surely.

That’s why I was so excited and proud when they came to me that day and asked That favor of me. They had not asked for something of the kind for a long time. It was a strange request, not that easy a feat either but I accepted with glee, after all, that was giving me a chance to help them one last time.

So what did they ask me?, you wonder. Well they asked me to paint the sky blue and to let them finally see the wonderful sight I had always been speaking about. That mysterious color they had never been able to lay their eyes on…


My short story for the writing prompt I suggested earlier this week, enjoy.

A girl has no name

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There is a girl living in my dream,

But sadly I do not know her name,

She lives in the forest, by the stream,

Far from humanity, far from fame;

Sometimes goes out to the wild to hunt

The nightmares, dark, twisted and lurking,

Chasing them away, turning them blunt,

In hope of one day saving her king.

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I need

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I want it all,

I want it now,

I’ve no patience,

Not big, nor small,

I swear avow.

My existence

Needs a rhythm,

A set of rules

To make me move,

Algorithm,

Advice from fools

Just won’t behoove…

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