starir inn í
Herbergi dubbað upp
starir inn í
Herbergi dubbað upp
He sits there, everyday, at the same spot on the stairs and is watching the people rush by, all of them competing with time. The people, staring straight ahead and with hurried paces they enter the ring, the bell rings to announce that the next round has begun. They are back in their places, at their work or habit, what is the difference?
He picks up a coin that has fallen on to the step below and puts it in his pocket. He smiles as this coin has so much value for him and can change so much. He sits still and keeps on watching, watching the same people doing, the same thing, everyday.
The tall woman with the long blond hair and the briefcase, that only wears black. He gave her the name Dew as she reminded him of the morning dew, that falls upon the world, beautiful yet cold.
Then there was the man, with the glasses that were too big for his petite face. And the chubby man that went to the pub after work, was always a little drunk and found some new woman to go home with, most days. He observed so many people everyday that he gave them names he thought would fit them.
Among them was the name Lonesome, a young man, slightly-built, red-haired with freckles. He walked each morning to and from his workplace. He always stopped at the stairs were the homeless man with the missing leg and a patch for the right eye sat, Lonesome always gave him food or coin.
Lonesome makes his way at a slow rate as he keeps moving aside for all the other people. He enters a tall, grayish and cold building that is suffocating him. During his breaks, he comes out of the building, sits on a bench and reads a book not far from the stairs.
During the lunch break Lonesome sits down next to the homeless man and hands him a sandwich. The homeless man nodes gratefully but they say nothing, they just sit there next to each other and eat in silence. They both understand that words are overrated and they do not need to say anything. They both sense their surroundings, the people and each other and that is enough for them. When the break is over Lonesome nods and goes back to his work place.
He sits behind and keeps observing the few people that are around. Some notice him and few go out of their way to give him a coin, he thanks them and smiles. He is content, he knows where his place is. Many that have a home and family have no clue where their place is in the world, like Dew, she hides behind the cold exterior to hide the uncertainty that she feels. He knows he can always find shelter and food when he needs it, he has no need to worry about life.
He waits calmly for the bell to ring again to indicate that this round has ended and for the people to stream out of the buildings all around.
He sits on the stairs and observes the people take the same path back were they had come from this morning. He notices how the people just walk into Lonesome as he attempting to fight his way through the crowd of people but at a slow rate as he keeps moving aside for people.
Lonesome stops not far from the stairs and nods to the homeless man, Lonesome had given him the name The steadfast soldier as he was always at his spot on the stairs even when Lonesomes shift was done. The steadfast soldier nodes back to Lonesome, which then continues on his way with out a smile.
The steadfast soldier shakes his head as he continues to follow Lonesome and his drawn-out battle through the crowd.
The difference between them was great but yet they were much alike. He knew they both had so much to offer but were not given the chance to do so. But the biggest difference was that people did see him, the homeless man, missing a leg, sitting on the stairs but Lonesome was invisible to the world.
Hann situr þarna á hverjum degi á sínum stað á tröppunum og horfir á fólkið æða fram hjá. Allir í kapphlaupi við tímann. Fólkið horfir beinnt áfram og hröðum taktföstum skrefum þýtur inn í hringinn, bjallan hringir, tilkynnir að þessi lota sé að hefjast. Þau eru aftur komin á sinn stað, við vinnu sína eða vana, hver er munurinn?
Hann tekur upp krónu sem liggur einni tröppu neðar og setur hana í vasann. Hann brosir, þessi króna breytir svo miklu fyrir hann. Hann situr kyrr og heldur áfram að fylgjast með. Þetta fólk sem hann sér á hverjum degi gera alltaf það sama. Hann hugsar með sér að líf þeirra hlýtur að vera leiðinlegt eða frekar tómt.
Hávaxna konan með ljósa síða hárið og skjalatöskuna, sem klæðist bara svörtu. Hann hafði skýrt hana Dögg. Hún minnti hann á döggina sem legst yfir allt að loknu regni, morgun döggina, falleg en svo köld. Svo var það maðurinn með gleraugun sem voru alltof stór miðað við smágerða andlitið og þybbni maðurinn sem var oftast fullur og fer með nýja konu með sér heim úr vinnunni flesta daga. Hann fylgdist með svo mikið af fólki á hverjum degi að hann gaf þeim öllum nafn sem honum fannst eiga við þau.
Þar á meðal var nafnið Einmana, ungur maður svolítið smágerður í vexti, rauðhærður, svolítið bólugrafinn og með freknur. Hann gekk á hverjum morgni til vinnu sinnar. Hann stoppaði alltaf við tröppurnar hjá heimilislausum manni sem vantaði annan fótinn og var með lepp fyrir hægra auganu og gaf honum mat eða aur. Einmana var undir í þjóðfelaginu, verr komin heldur en heimilislausir. Hann fór hægt yfir því hann var alltaf að víkja fyrir öllum. Hann fór inn í stóra, gráa og líflausa byggingu sem var að kæfa hann. Einmana kemur í kaffihléi sínu og situr einn á bekk að lesa bók, ekki langt frá tröppunum. Svo í hádeginu sest hann á tröppurnar og réttir heimilislausa manninum samloku.
Hann kinkar kolli þakklátur fyrir matinn en þeir segja ekkert. Sitja bara hlið við hlið og borða. Báðir skilja að orð eru vanmetin og að þeir þurfa ekki að segja það sem þeim liggur á hjarta. Þeir skynja umhverfið, fólkið og hvorn annan og það er þeim báðum nóg. Svo fer Einmana aftur til vinnu sinnar.
Hann situr enn og fylgist með þessum fáu manneskjum sem eru á vappi. Þær taka eftir honum og sumar fara úr leið til að gefa honum aur. Hann þakkar fyrir og brosir. Honum líður vel hann veit hvar staða hans er, margir sem eiga heimili og fjölskyldur hafa ekki hugmynd um hver staða þeirra er eins og Dögg hún veit það ekki og felur sig bak við kalt yfirborð. Hann veit að hann getur alltaf reddað sér húsaskjóli og mat ef þess þarf, hann hefur ekki áhyggjur af lífinu.
Hann bíður rólegur þangað til bjallan hringir aftur til að tilkynna að þessari lotu sé lokið. Fólkið streymir út úr byggingunum í kring. Hann situr kyrr á tröppunum og fylgist með fólkinu ganga sömu leið til baka og það kom. Þarna birtist Einmana, reynir að brjóta sér leið í gegnum mannþröngina en gengur hægt því hann er alltaf að víkja fyrir hinum.
Einmana stoppar ekki langt frá tröppunum og kinkar kolli til heimilislausa mannsins, Einmana hafði gefið honum nafnið Dátinn, þar sem hann var alltaf á sínum stað þar til vakt hans var lokið.
Dátinn kinkaði kolli til Einmana, sem heldur áfram ferð sinni án þess að brosa, andlit unga mansins frosið. Dátinn horfir á fólkið ganga utan í Einmana. Hann hristir höfuðið. Munurinn á þeim tveim var svo mikill en þó voru þeir svo eins. Hann vissi að þeir höfðu báðir svo mikið að gefa en hvorugur þeirra fékk tækifæri til þess. En stærsti munurinn á þeim var sá að fólkið tók eftir honum, heimlausa manninum á tröppunum, en Einmana var ósýnilegur fyrir heiminum.
I know that your eyes, tell me no lies,
and in your smile, I can get lost, for awhile.
I miss your voice…
I miss your face…
But with every beat in my veins,
I hear the rattle of your chains.
I need to get you out of my mind,
out of my heart, the two are entwined.
I know you are wounded, with several scars,
that led to, you, sealing off, with heavy bars.
My soul is torn…
Inside I mourn…
I sit here with the pieces of my heart,
I watched, as it fell apart!
Realizing and coming to terms with it, that I am a pantser or in other words discovery writer…
I have tried and tried to plan my stories but every time I do that I lose the ability to write the story, I get stuck, I just can’t seem to write anything. I know what is suppose to happen and I know what the characters need to do but I just can not write it.
This has frustrated me to no end… most articles/posts/discussion I find concerning writing process, is about the best way to plan your story and I figured ‘I have to do that, to be able to write’ but that has not worked well for me. Realizing I am not a Plotter, but what do I do then… I have been trying to find that out and it has taken some time for me to find my way.
Now, what has worked for me? So far so good…
I have taken all my writing projects, that I have planned and hit pause on those. I took the only story, I actually had, not planned yet, I had an rough idea of the few characters I wanted to have in the story and a magic system, that I was still working out how worked and an idea of the ending.
That became my story, the one I was going to write.
I took the characters and wrote a few lines about them, finding the voice they had. Gave the magic system some thought so I could actually use it and how it could be part of the story. Wrote down a few lines, of the rough idea, of how the story would end and what I wanted the characters to learn about themselves. Depending on what it was I wrote somewhere between 100-500 words on each subject.
And then I began to write.
Chapter 1, I wrote and wrote and when I had made my first draft of the chapter I realized it was actually chapter 2 not 1. But another thing happened as I wrote, a guard that was supposed to die and was not really a person I had given much thought, came to life as I wrote and I began to see how he could be part of the story and how him being part of the story would actually change the path of some of the other characters. This new character would change how the romance of two other characters would end and how the bittersweet ending I had in mind would become even more bittersweet. Like the other characters I wrote few lines of text about him, a little backstory and his voice. Then I started a new chapter 1, again, and this time the words just come to me, as I now, had these two characters that interact with each other in a way I had not considered before.
This is a process and I am still finding my way through it…
To be continued… when more happens… and I have more to tell…
kaldur og harður,
líkt og hjarta þitt.
Hvassur vindur og snjór,
sem skellur í andlit mitt
og inn að hjartanu,
líkt og orð þín.
Stormurinn sem fylgir þér
rífur mig upp
og þeytir mér burt ,
líkt og lítið blóm,
sem á engan stað í þessum heimi.
A doll that cries
and says mommy
sits on a shelf,
on a wall,
in an empty room,
where a child
used to play.
Now the child is gone
and all that remains
is the tears and
from her father’s