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Now that the Day of Love is over...

Brittany Rose — Sat, 16 Feb 2013 03:09:05 +0000

…we can all go back to hating each other.

(found on Pinterest.com)

Okay, totally joking. However, I will laugh about how the worst spouses/significant others are given a thousand more chances because of chocolate, flowers, and sexy lingerie. I don’t get it. I don’t think that Valentin’s Day should be a change of personality to show a temporary excess of affection. Love should be celebrated every day, not with the spending of money, necessarily, but with attitude, patience, giving, time, subtle affection, etc. Who said it all had to be shoved into one 24-hour time span? And who said that it ever had to end?

Writing from Inspiration: Dreams

Brittany Rose — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 17:44:36 +0000

Most, if not all, artists have their inspiration, whether it is another form of art, family, their children, nature, space, the busy city streets, etc. I am led to believe that true artists are inspired by many different things, but all of us are inspired by something. This can come from emotions, such as happiness or the pain of separation, or physical pain or pleasure. The amount of things that can inspire are endless.

My newest discovery is the inspiration of dreams, as you can see by yesterday’s post. I am a vivid dreamer and have been for as long as I am able to remember, so vivid, in fact, that impacting dreams can affect my entire day with an “off” or disturbing feeling. This feeling could rarely be over-ridden or forgotten until I fell into solace: more dreams. I am hoping that this is no longer the case. Why, you may ask? I had this idea, yesterday, that I could take that confusion, that off-feeling, that disturbance and use it as inspiration, just as I use the disturbances of the world outside my dreams. You know what? It creates a very unique, almost intimate writing experience, because the poem isn’t foreign or new, no, it has been rehearsed and built up through hours of restless slumber. It has been waiting to be touched and brought back to life. It was only waiting to be written.

So, if you share the burden of vivid dreams, either bad or good, I encourage you to transform them into inspiration for whatever art you create. Even if you are weary of the idea, I suggest just giving it a try. If you do follow this advice, I would love to hear/see anything that comes of it!

Contact me any time, lovelies,
Brittany Rose

And Then Came Love (Short Story)

Brittany Rose — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 16:01:52 +0000

Overwhelmed with great sorrow, her lashes fled light, and sweeping with abundant force and anguish, they gripped tightly to their lower companions. Grasp broken with salt and water, she wept. All about her was raw and shaking, and there was nothing good to be held. Housing her unseen eyes were sunken cavities, craters of darkness about her face. The covering of her bones was loose with the stress of life, and her years were younger than appeared. Her locks were tangled with fury and disgust, swept in groups, and twirled about her head. Her neck was wrung, by her own doing, and her breathing grotesque. Sudden bursts of raspy breath were beheld, only to fall silent once more. And again, in repeat, this solemn, burning vision played its song: harsh, airy, and full of death. Her gulps persisted. Embraced about her waist and body, in full, were her very own arms, bruised and scrawny. Her pale complexion, all but a curse to her now, lived a canvas to her torment. Every speck, bruise, laceration, and worry was seen about it. Dirt clung to her and her clothing, and she was stained with disease. She wore her world about her skin and bones, for that is all she had to bear. And yet, in the unforgiving silence that encompassed her mind, she heard a still and quiet voice. It was great and powerful, while being both compassionate and filled with understanding. “You know not of perfect love, for I am love – complete – and in me there is no fear.” In hearing these words, her chest grew warm and burned with a cleansing fire. Throughout her bones it crept and gripped about her, creeping through her core, and swimming to the edges of her body. She was tingling and newly alive.

- Brittany Rose
(The voice is was inspired by 1 John 4:16 and 18)

I know I promised this like two days ago, but I fail, constantly. Hopefully by the end of today I will also have a 365 poem posted, but promising really does no good these days. I hope you enjoyed it; I would love to hear some feedback.