writing prompt cause it makes things move

 
   I spent many years cursing these steps. Many times arguing about how steep they were, how everlasting they were, how they made me suffer, how they stressed me to the point of exhaustion.
   They were stone. Cold and damp from the lack of sunlight and heat. They continued higher and higher, always leading me upwards into something more.
   But I was angry with them, angry that they made me suffer. That they were the reason my legs hurt, my muscles hurt, that my mind raged with frustration of not already getting to where I wanted to be...which was at the top...the top of the world...the top of these blasted steps.

   Yet... it was by a chance moment, while catching my breath...when the sunlight streaked through the opening at the top...that I realized something profound.
   That it was never the steps that caused me such grief. It was not the climb or the distance between down below and up above. It was that my legs at the beginning of this adventure were unable to withstand the journey all at once.
   It was my lack of strength that invited the pain. My lack of endurance that created the suffering. The lack of flexibility that strained me so. My lack of allowing. My lack of patience....of acceptance...of understanding...of awareness...of love.
   It was all me. I was the reason the climb had been difficult.
   The steps were doing exactly what steps were called to do, which was to provide a path upwards.
It was me who created the false anguish, the hard times, the overwhelming odds.

   But now... as I still climb some of these steps from time to time... I know my legs are strong. My calves like iron. My feet assured and centered. My resolve is focused and fully aware that it all belongs to me.
   And these steps... thank god for these steps which have already carved a path for me to follow. These steps which wrought my strength and passion and patience and power and meaning and truth.
These steps that created me... and created me to climb and overcome and reach the top of all that was before me.
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Another writing prompt, and I'm liking these things. It feels like it expands my reservoirs of hidden occultist knowledge.

a story I wrote from a prompt

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   This wasn't the first time I was here. The ground was damp and the air cool, but I knew it would be warmer by the time the sun rose high enough past the treetops.
   I could hear echos in the distance, across the bridge and beyond the rocks climbing higher up the ridge. The music traveled down the ravine to where I stood across the other side of the bride.
"Why do you keep coming here?" My thoughts begin to ask their own questions. Questions that tend to leave me overthinking or worse, ignoring them altogether.
   I knew, from every time I ventured here before, that once I crossed this bridge, the person I was, was dislodged from my being. Across the bridge, I was someone else...but perhaps, who I really was. The one that didn't find herself limited by the wiles and whims of the world and it's people.
"Across the bridge is true freedom." The voice echos through my ears.
   But was it really? Was being all of me actually freedom, or was it simply a different view of who I always had been, had I not had so many worldly distractions pulling me to and fro? I disagreed with the voice and sigh.
"You keep coming here to rediscover yourself. To cross the bridge ten thousand times until you no longer return." It says softly.
   Did that mean I would have to pass away from this life to stay across the bridge? I also disagreed with this as well. There was something I had always felt that trumped all the ideals of the voice, of the thoughts, of even the feelings... it was the knowing that I was both the one across the bridge and the one standing on this side. And I wouldn't abandon either.
   Maybe it was a stubborn delusion, or a downright offensive version of never agreeing to the popular narrative. Maybe though, I was right. It felt right...and wouldn't that be enough in a simpler time?
"Just cross the bridge and stop thinking so much." The voice says, already annoyed with my rambling notions of unity and a healthy vice grip on keeping all that was mine.
   The bridge...I smile...the one that connects me to more of me...and one that didn't even need a bridge to dance hand in hand with. I close my eyes as the wind casts past me and down further into the ravine.
All these things and objects and connections...when none of it mattered when the music from atop the ridge played. We all... I all... could hear it just the same.
"You're rambling" Another voice says to me. Not mine. It belonged to a friend of mine whom I haven't seen in a few weeks.
"I always ramble. I'm trying to write a story here." I jest, more happy to see and hear him, than focus on the scenario playing out.
"You are not writing a story, remember... You are writing you. Like we all write ourselves." He says.
"The bridge is me." I accept. "This part, that part. The connection when I'm paying attention." I shrug. "None of it matters so much except that I'm here for it all."
"It matters." He replies. "What we build on this side, on that side...and what strengthens what is between them."
   I know he's teaching me something. Something deep about how some bridges are rickety and shaky, with rotten wood and frayed ropes, and others are built strong with stones or metal. Some one person at a time, others tractor trailers drive across. The stronger our bridges, the more connected we are to the parts of ourselves that have even more abundance and joy and truth and love.
"All bridges connect." He adds quietly. "And we benefit from the good things on each side, without ever losing what we've gained from the one we left. They connect."
   He's right. We can travel both ways, here and there, back and forth. And even more bridges will be built when we find another world within ourselves.
   And maybe this bridge wasn't even really here in the midst of a ravine. Maybe the forest and the river and the music wasn't all there was. Maybe it was all us. And the bridge... was me.
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That was a writing prompt posted by one of my facebook friends.
I'm the only one who wrote something that wasn't a two sentence story about a troll or hobbit.
Whateverthefuck.
Fucking sleepwalking clones and no wonder I'm so fucking bored with this pissload of craptastical humans.
Anyway...
yardsale, day 2... didn't do as well as day 1... but got to talk deep with some guy about religion and god delivered some krispy creme doughnuts to me....so yeah... nice.

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In other worlds...

So we have to relevel the pool ourselves evidently. Looks like if you want it done right, you do in fact have to do it yourself. Which sucks, cause it costed us $500 for it to be done wrong.

I don't have anything else to write here...
I'm trying but I feel a negative energy just like... stop girl, this sucks.
so later peeps.