Writing prompt: Cigar (10 minutes)

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He puffed at his cigar in thought.
It wasn’t the sort of absent minded puffing of an old man tired from years of strenuous labor, but the sort of intentional puffing spurred by a mind much more active than his wizened appearance might suggest.

He peered at me from beneath spectacles that only made him appear more alluring.

“Whatchu staring at child?” He laughed at me.

I fought back a blush and managed a controlled “You’re just interesting,” in response.

He reminded me of a bygone era. One which people can’t live at present, but can only be experienced in dreams and memory.

His laugh lines smiled incessantly, suggesting his life had been filled with unsurpassed joviality.

But I knew better.

More often than not, those who appear happiest have often dealt with tremendous hardship.

My mind raced with curiosity intent upon discovering his story.

His right had ashed his cigar while his left toyed purposefully with an intricate topper perched on his cane.

Exquisitely carved, it looked as though this piece of wood had a more riveting life story than my own.

“This thing?” He caught me admiring his walking stick.

“I found it. Or it found me.

If you were expecting a heroic story, might I suggest you go create your own.”

He puffed again at the cigar.

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Writing Prompt: Day #4 – Curb (5 minutes)

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My tire hit the curb. Embarrassed, I tried to back out and fix my mistake, but I just ended up adding to my embarrassment by making an even bigger scene in trying to back over the curb again.

I was thankful that it appeared as though no one else saw my blunder. I hated the feeling of embarrassment, especially in public.

I’m so easily embarrassed. People often remark about how easily my cheeks take on the reddish tint of embarrassed warmth at the slightest suggestion of anything provocative or private.

Whoever still thinks that shyness or introversion is something I can control is sorely mistaken and deserves a swift kick in the rear.

Or at least a subtle suggestion that their opinion is a crock of horse shit.

It seems as though more people than ever relate to the torture of living with social anxiety, but somehow the idea of not being alone with my anxiety isn’t terribly reassuring.

It makes me anxious to think about the fact that other people are anxious.

I wouldn’t want anyone to have to deal with that kind of stress.

Am I supposed to be grateful that I’m not the only one who suffers?

Hell, man, I wish none of us had to suffer. I want to alleviate pain, not spread it around.

I’ve started smoking more weed lately. I don’t know if it actually helps, or if I’ve just convinced myself it helps.

writing prompt: Sky (10 minutes)

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The sky beckons me upward and I leave the earth behind. My ability to give a shit about anything worrisome fades away exponentially as the distance between my body and the ground quickly grows. The houses look like small, square dots on a map I could care less about deciphering. I can’t even distinguish the people from the trees. This moment leaves me in complete bliss. Never before have I felt such a boundless freedom. I’m no longer tethered to solid ground as the sky opens up an entirely new world of possibility. I would have thought that by now the fear of falling would have overtaken me entirely. Instead, a sense of euphoria overwhelms me and I laugh in the face of all of the previous moments in my life laden with fear. Fear seems so insignificant now. As the entire lay of the land stretches beneath me, I feel invincible. I might not know my future, but somehow this aerial perspective makes me feel omniscient and I know that everything will be ok. I never want to land. My euphoria lessens slightly at the thought of eventually returning to earth. I shake the thought from my mind and continue my ascent. It’s funny how the clouds have changed in this new perspective. From the ground, I always imagined holding them in my hands, a solid fluffy, arguably unattainable mass. And now I glide through them effortlessly, laughing at the notion of once having considered them tangible. I remember lying in the grass as a child and looking up at these clouds, trying to find intentional shapes in their unintentional formations.