John ran to pick up the ringing phone in the empty office — “This is the police.” Where had all his colleagues suddenly gone?

“I need help, my cat is stuck in a tree!” said a little girl, speaking through tears. John felt sorry for her.

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know. Kitty is afraid!”

“Okay — what do you see around you?”

“A house called Central. And many people.”

John got a feeling… looking out of the window, he saw police officers, staring up at a tree — with a cat. The little girl next to them.

“Police Central,” she explained.

Darkened mind, greyed-out world, unlit room.
Sadness close to madness, we are dumb, we are doomed.
Talks and promises hit and run, eyes left running, days run too — dry of wit.
Massacre, attack, invasion.
Greed, betrayal, inflation.

Seeking out the darkest place — to do what needs to be the case.
A corner, full of books, back covered from the crooks.
A single light, a candle. All enough for me to handle.
Finding light, finding ways, to enhance my living space.

None of all the modern crap, none of TV, phone, or app.
Solves a problem, lighten up.
Neither news of threats and war.

But in stories, short or long, there is stuff that makes me strong.
Candlelight is just enough to get rid of all the bluff.
Words of wisdom, thought, or wonder.
Helps me overcome the thunder-like
mind of darkness.

Peace and quiet — cozy shadows — warming words.
Inspiration — imagination — procrastination.
Away is the greyish world of betray.
Instead is the mindful state of today.
The moment of joy.

Darkness blurs the certainty, 
sparseness dims the urgency, 
shadows add immensity.

Darkness meets the light and makes it clear. Takes away the former fear.

Darkness makes the endless room
where thoughts of light can grow ahead
of insights made from what I read.

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Today started with colourful thoughts!

My midnight blue computer opened in dark mode and switched shortly to bright mode, this way presenting me for a broad palette of greys in the various parts of the user interface.

A cup of black espresso lungo with its brownish foam in a green cup was a perfect complement to the emerging celeste day sky behind the shady clouds of orange-white with every tone of bluish grey spread and spangled over the top of the world.

The yellow light of an LED lamp guided my fingers across the keyboard, while the rainbow of soft electronic tones from Kitaro’s Silk Road soundtrack guided my mind across the spontaneous questions:

What’s the colour of silk? I know that: I saw it being unwound from the cocoons long ago, but no matter its own colour, it was soon dyed into just about any nuance and tone of the colour palette.

And the road? Curling its way through the Himalayas, through many countries and landscapes, many ages, with many creatures of every thinkable colour watching the caravans from above and below.

Didn’t get much sleep, so my red eyeballs were helplessly surrounding each steel blue iris and its pupil in the attempt to maintain a solid visual grip of the light grey electronic paper, but somehow tending to get too attracted by the coloured noise on the screen — the traffic light buttons in one corner, the peach-coloured and magenta icons of the toolbar in another, and that inciting little green plus sign for adding more pages, more meaning, to the writing.

Now finally here, ready to write. The purpose being to end up with something that isn’t just black and white, not just the same greyish mix of pencilled dust over the paper — symbolically, as the computer doesn’t even leave a trace of dust on the writing, letting it be all transparent in a sense, by showing only a white frame around the cut-out letter-shaped holes through which the screen’s colorless background let itself show.

This way, even the most colourful descriptions are written by the colour of colorless. Between the lines, however, the full universe of all what the screen is capable of is mixed into a bright white. Between the lines, and even between the letters and between the lines of the letters.

Now I just wonder

What is the colour of the writing while still not on the screen?

While still in the mind, on its way through my nervous system into the fingertips and then the keys and further through the inner wirings and logic of the computer, the Wi-Fi, the router, the hundreds of internet devices used to make the writing finally enter the screen as colorless emptiness — and controlling the muscles of my arms, hands, fingers, eyes, — and lips, as I cannot help reading aloud while shaping the beat, the rhythm, the voice of the text.

And I wonder

What colour has the writing from the moment where I put it there, on potential display on the Internet, but before anyone opens it for reading?

And when entering the reader’s screen, the air between the reader’s computer and their eyes, and through the eyes, the nerves behind them, through the brain in a distributed pattern of electrical-chemical impulses and traces, some lasting, others not?

And when being part of a moment of consciousness, perhaps for a fraction of a second, perhaps longer, but still to be potentially recalled and remembered?

What is the colour of a thought? An understanding? An emotion? A memory?

Are thoughts genuinely colourful? Are colours?

…Funny, because the book was — funny. But it made me cry. For having fun with a book instead of people. For being on the outside of that funny book, not being part of the fun, just watching it through its confusing window of paper and ink.

That thought made me laugh. Sad, because the thought was — sad. I laughed over the silly situation of crying over a funny book, because of its abstracted nature, its non-presence, its imaginary nature. Sarcastic self-ironic defensive laughing over sad humour.

That realization made me cry again. And think, and laugh, and cry. A true Janus, me, my head spinning, faster, alternating expressions, me getting dizzy, expressions getting blurry, thoughts getting numb. Turning into stone.

Stone-face looked at another book. A third, a fourth. Romantic, funny, horrifying. No reaction. The air thick of emotions, but nothing getting through the stone mask. Breaking it down, however, adding scars and erosion. Nose tip and earlobes, cheeks and chin, forehead — nothing like the previous smooth marble, now revealed as fragile, rough cement.

The book was full of life. Teaching, instructing. It was life. It guided and lived my life that I could watch only from the outside. It now sits on the shelf, worn and torn. And it sits in the face, the face revealing the soul. Stoned by life. Not hardened, just stoned. Worn and torn. Fragile stone.

The book was my cry. My one attempt. My first and my last.

Silence

The emergence of light met her eyes through a narrow opening. Rebecca instinctively tried to avoid that strange intrusive feeling that light can make at the first glimpse of it — when the day starts.

Day

What day was it? She didn’t even remember having gone to bed. She searched her mind for anything more profound than white noise. Her eyes trained on the white of the ceiling, far away.

Yellow

Stretching an imagined muscle, then another, she didn’t experience the familiar satisfaction of it. She didn’t feel anything. No response. Still waking up. Now, a hazy yellow wall appeared where the ceiling ended.

Sound

Hissing, clicking. It was calming, a connection. The sounds followed her breath. Rebecca was one with the sounds. Odd. As if she was breathing the sounds. And nice. She wanted to sleep again. Eyes closed.

Touch

Something touched her cheek. A fly. Or was it a fly? Half asleep, she tried to raise a hand to wave it off, but the hand didn’t respond. Another touch. Not a fly, bigger. Her eyes strained to find a narrow opening again.

Adrenalin

“We have a movement!” Footsteps, talking, more touching, pushing her, holding her. A sharp prick in her shoulder. The light changed, moved — it was people, in white, a man with a clipboard, a woman holding a syringe. Tubes hung over her, a bag with liquid. Wanted to touch it — this time the hand responded and moved a bit.

Alive

“She is back! She’s awake!” The nurse looked her in the eyes, smiled. “Welcome back!”

Common sense is more than nonsense.
Creative more than standard.
Special more than normal.

Common sense is
anti-academic
anti-egalitarian
anti-standard
anti-normal
anti-common

Common is special.
Common is creative in a world of up-beat normals.

Common coffee is not a latte.
Common tea is not a special blend of Himalaya and Rooibos.
Common days are days of understandable simplicity.

Common people are unusual.
They are special in a perceived typical way
however rare that really is.

Common sense is
anti-assuming
anti-presuming
anti-ignorant
anti-numb
anti-dumb

Sensing is emotional.
Sensing is inspiration in a world of unproved claims.

Sensed sunshine is not electro-magnetic waves.
Sensed wind is not the movement of weather fronts.
Sensed time is time of comprehendible value.

Common sense sees all this as life and shades of thoughts.
As creative inspiration and special contrast
simple emotions
unusually typical
the obvious that points to the insight.

First thoughts

I love reading short stories. I always did. But I love writing long stories.

A paradox!

But it is not so strange, actually, since the very same mechanism is in play — When reading a short story, I can fill in the blanks myself. And imagine what came before, what comes after, and what happens in parallel. My imagination is working, and I love it.

Writing is all that same imagination channeled through the fingers into the keyboard. I do all the thinking so the reader will not have to. Or perhaps the reader will enjoy many more blanks to fill in, much more to imagine before, after and in parallel.

When I once went through a challenge by a publication on Medium, I discovered both how difficult it was to sort and bring only the most valuable information in the 200 words allowed — and how quickly I got the concept worked into my brain and my fingers, so that I almost ran out of words and meanings right at the moment where my word counter hit 200.

Surprisingly, as I always struggled with short. But then — after ten short articles in a few days — I was hooked on the format and wanted to write more of it. I now like writing short and understand the joy of it.

There was another surprise, though — when reading through both my own and others’ contributions, I feel that they lack the rich and broad coverage of ideas, presenting only one briefly described one. Stories can be too short for offering a universe to build on. It surprises me that some people prefer to read such short and less rich texts?

There is more to learn!

Afterthoughts

There are many myths about modern people having a short attention span, and that we are all too busy to read longer texts.

But being busy and quickly skipping through texts does not give me any satisfaction. I want more!

It is like watching a movie, say Star Wars, and then feeling that there are too many ends left to wind up, to much of a mess remaining to leave the story. The people behind Star Wars understood this and made a zillion more movies, TV-series, computer games, etc., so now I don’t need more of that.

But in general, if I like what I read, I want more. I don’t want it to end. As a child, when reading many, long stories, I always hated the moment where only a few pages were left to read and the story was about to end.

Short can be impressive.

Looking at our nature, I can get very amazed by some of the tiniest creatures - how can they function at all, being so small? They have legs and perhaps wings, they have eyes and other sensors, they know what is going on around them, they can make plans, survive… They are alive with only a few grams of body weight to support that.

In outer space, on the contrary, everything is colossal! And yet, everything there consists of extremely small elementary particles - even they being not so elementary after all, as they also consist of even smaller things.

Small definitely has its place. Short, low, slim - we adore the tiny.

But combine more of that, and you suddenly have long, big, high, and much.

Everything good comes in small doses, they saying goes. An apple a day keeps the doctor away, even. Not a kilo of apples. No. Just one modest apple.

Our language, whatever language that is, can easily express gratitude for having just a little, or for not facing big challenges.

We don’t like everything that is big, that’s for sure. Big can be scary. I remember that little boy at the childrens’ library, where I worked, who wanted to read more but had problems with it. He wanted thin books. The thicker ones were too much of a challenge for him. I thought that my enthusiasm for reading could also become his, so I tried to explain that a thick book is just like three thin ones - nothing to worry about. He trusted me and borrowed a thick book, which he brought back a few days later with a sad expression in his face - “It is too difficult”.

But he spent long hours in the library, just like I had done as a child. Not everything needed to be diminutive. And we did have something in common, if not the love for long reads.

And questions

I wonder:

How do you feel about this? Do you want short or long texts?

An easy jump. I let the train drag me down into the tunnel and out on the other side.

“Welcome to the other side!” — a man looks straight through me, greeting someone behind me.

Walking between thousands in the park. Nobody gives way, nobody looks at me. Nobody sees me.

Opposites rule. People looking left but turning right. Looking away when they need contact.

Geese greet me. I talk to them. They feel safe with me and eat more grass.

Seagulls screaming, children screaming. Sun shining, wind blowing.

Not here but sensing the world, like a ghost in a mirror.

Let me hear your breath. Let me hear you are there. Free me from the mirror.

Too many facts. And they are mostly fake. Mostly misguiding you.

Too much scientific thinking. And it is mostly wrong. Mostly betraying you.

Too little real in the reality, too little true in the truth.

Make a shift, make a world, make it real, make it yours.

Fictitious is the new fact

Make it up to make it better. Don’t fake the truth, create a story that is purely yours, true in its inventiveness, trustworthy in its faithfulness to itself, it’s connectedness and integrity. All what facts are not.

Poetry is the new science

Emotions, the voice of the soul, mental interconnectedness. Poetry offers an alternative to physical and factual, an alternative to explainable and provable. Poetry is pure mind, pure emotion, pure you.

Scripting, scribbling, and scrabbling

Words appear from nowhere, assemble themselves in your mind to all sorts of new meanings, building your universe or depicting a spot, a line, or a hint of it.

You write, you try to follow the stream of words and meanings and depictions. Try to interpret it all and make it human readable, communicative, attractive.

A pen is great for this. It is slow but permanent. You must concentrate to do it right, cannot allow distractions, must get it right the first time. Scripting by hand gives you the manuscript.

To do it right, you want to scribble notes in a notebook, or on the back of old paper that didn’t become what you wanted, didn’t depict the right spots or hints. The back is now a place for treasures, thoughts, and doodles.

Fixing the beauty of it all, making words come nicely after each other, flowing with a tranquil rhythm, a sudden stop! and another stream of flowing words and meanings.

Flow is fragile, words are flexible. Scrabbling the letters and digging the dictionary, taming the thesaurus, and bingeing the book of proverbs all takes the fragility to a fresh turn, a flight in space with winged rhythms.

Preparing and publishing

The poem lands and looks at you, excited, expecting, emotional. You pet it a bit and comb a comma, pinch a point, and you nurture its words and prune it here, add to it there, bring in the bits for a perfected read.

The prose may be read, put away, rest a while, to reveal extra aspects and complexities. A plot can be founded and prepared, a clue can be tightened and repaired. The flow and the rhythm, the said and the unsaid.

And then, you have it! The script for the thing to be published. A last read and check, a small fix was needed, but now — send it off to a place that will give it a basis, a platform, a solid foundation for finding its reader.

Fictitious Scripts is the place

The space to use for the various stories, the wonderous stories, the well-doing stories. The poems of thought, love and feelings, the fiction to bring in the glimpse of a world that could be and would be more interesting.

In this space the universe is your own, as you want it and shape it. Don’t drag in the bad from the fake world outside, let your delve and dive into what is supplied and build up for yourself all your views, all you want to see.