consistent.
wash, rinse, repeat.
thoughts beget actions beget habits begets consistency.
do, or do not do, there is no trying for consistency.
consistency is a way of life.
“Oh no.” I stared down at the strawberry shortcake that was supposed to be my best friend’s birthday present. The fight I had with my parents earlier that day had stressed me out so much; to vent my frustration, I decided to beat the cake batter extra vigorously with my whisk. Now that I took a look at the finished product, the cake was mega dense, resembling a slab of cement. Happy birthday, bestie: here’s your delicately frosted brick.
SHR
It is a consistent feature of my life that I wait for the change which promises to complete me.
Solar Flare
What is the Cake? Does it consist of many things, and is it consistent over time? Surely Cake consistency over time and viscosity depends upon the consistency of that of which it consists. The consistency of its consistency, so to speak. Wherein lies the connection between these things? The etymology monster stirs in its cave of word roots, and giggles.
Solar Flare
The mud felt weird. I was sticking my hand into chocolate pudding – not bacteria invested dirt water from a demon hurricane. “Right, Jewel?”
Jewel looked at me. She had eyes a little lighter than the brown of the mixture my wrist was stuck in.
Talia Washington
every morning
i wake up
and feel you
the
empty
space
that you
still take
up
and every morning
i
die
Em
Every morning, he went fishing. Same spot. Two trout, no more. Back by noon. Cooked on the fire. Ate with old bread. Good, simple. Days went by. The river stayed, the fish stayed, the man stayed. Life was steady.
human_esque
Raindrops trace patterns on window panes, as cups of tea grow cold. Every day, at precisely four o’clock, a sigh, a stirring. The soft echo of a heart that aches with sameness; the unvarying tick of the clock which renders the soul as still as the quietude without.
Jaz
Suppose you had a magical pen, and every day it churns out marvelous stories, doodles, and everything in-between. One day it stops. “What gives?” you’d ask. Then, it’s only drawing perfect circles. A celestial conspiracy, you reckon. Too bad, art doesn’t do monotony.
arlo
I’m not consistent in my writing. I know I have to in order to get better at it. Consistency is in itself a practice and in time will pay off.
Consistency
consistent.
wash, rinse, repeat.
thoughts beget actions beget habits begets consistency.
do, or do not do, there is no trying for consistency.
consistency is a way of life.
“Oh no.” I stared down at the strawberry shortcake that was supposed to be my best friend’s birthday present. The fight I had with my parents earlier that day had stressed me out so much; to vent my frustration, I decided to beat the cake batter extra vigorously with my whisk. Now that I took a look at the finished product, the cake was mega dense, resembling a slab of cement. Happy birthday, bestie: here’s your delicately frosted brick.
It is a consistent feature of my life that I wait for the change which promises to complete me.
What is the Cake? Does it consist of many things, and is it consistent over time? Surely Cake consistency over time and viscosity depends upon the consistency of that of which it consists. The consistency of its consistency, so to speak. Wherein lies the connection between these things? The etymology monster stirs in its cave of word roots, and giggles.
The mud felt weird. I was sticking my hand into chocolate pudding – not bacteria invested dirt water from a demon hurricane. “Right, Jewel?”
Jewel looked at me. She had eyes a little lighter than the brown of the mixture my wrist was stuck in.
every morning
i wake up
and feel you
the
empty
space
that you
still take
up
and every morning
i
die
Every morning, he went fishing. Same spot. Two trout, no more. Back by noon. Cooked on the fire. Ate with old bread. Good, simple. Days went by. The river stayed, the fish stayed, the man stayed. Life was steady.
Raindrops trace patterns on window panes, as cups of tea grow cold. Every day, at precisely four o’clock, a sigh, a stirring. The soft echo of a heart that aches with sameness; the unvarying tick of the clock which renders the soul as still as the quietude without.
Suppose you had a magical pen, and every day it churns out marvelous stories, doodles, and everything in-between. One day it stops. “What gives?” you’d ask. Then, it’s only drawing perfect circles. A celestial conspiracy, you reckon. Too bad, art doesn’t do monotony.
I’m not consistent in my writing. I know I have to in order to get better at it. Consistency is in itself a practice and in time will pay off.