It’s always been odd writing on a platform for me, it is as if the scariest things that lie in deep within cannot be expressed out.

A small voice, seeking validity, could it ever find it out here in the open?

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Lace

Sarah Ditum

lace

I learned to make lace when I was small, solemnly winding my bobbins with white thread then working over the pillow with deepest concentration – twisting and crossing the splints of wood, carefully weighted with scavenged beads, never learning so well that my hands could work without stumbling, but working all the same. I made my first few pieces, slack-tensioned and a little sloppy. My older female relatives and family friends inspected them indulgently but unimpressed. They were Bedfordshire women who had learned the needle arts at school, women who had been educated for domesticity, women who could not believe that I would leave school at 16 unable to knit, sew or make pastry. “I could make this,” my grandma would say, plucking the unhappy hems of my Topshop jumpers. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”

Their lives didn’t stop at what their education had fitted them for, though, because this…

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Paean To The Mountains

JamesRadcliffe.com

[ Paeannoun: a song of praise or triumph. ]

I write for all kinds of reasons.  One of the big ones is: Writing about something lets me know how I feel about it; and why.

A few weeks ago I took a one thousand mile road-trip around the far north coastline of the Highlands.  I rested.  I spent time.  I did Things.

I climbed some mountains.

I wrote this post to find out why.

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Empty Room

She stumbles upon room namely the ‘Empty Room’ oh curious that she was, she walks in, and takes a sit. Around, looms in the darkness. And she takes a sit at the big empty table. 

And she waits.

Virtual Identity 

How many things could a writer feel? As they stare into the blank space of a blog post, the little bar that flashes in the same spot, hungry for words. Oh I starved, more starved than you would imagine. Before I can spill though, I realised why it feels so foreign to write here. It’s the lack of an audience, search of an online identity that seems to be restricting myself. Part of me wants to go back to line, and the other part of me want to stay.

Moss heads and Fur balls 

You always put your hand there, you reach out, to that empty space next to you, as though expecting to grab a something, a fur ball, the ghost of a body, a moss head or two skulls. And there’s nothing except empty air that wallows through the blanket.