Raven Lockwood Quotes

Some find it hard to write emotively. I've had some people say to me that they simply cannot. There are two ways to try and achieve it, to either draw upon your own lives experiences or pushing your imagination into those circumstances and feeling how your heart reacts.
When I write emotively much of it comes from my own experiences and thoughts. But for some things it is not because I have experienced every emotion in my short life time already. It means I am able to imagine in my mind a given situation and feel how my heart reacts to those thoughts. Forcing myself deep into the moment of fantasy and not fearing how I feel. Some writers rely on this skill, not picturing it in their mind they are feeling it as though with their own heart even though the situation is not one they have found themselves to have been in. I believe I struggle with this, I challenge myself in some of my stories and writing that I do but I find myself favouring writing about what I know, what I have felt in my own life, love being most favoured but also excitement, worry, fear and of course sorrow. Many people will be happy to write about joy and happiness but would never write of their fears and weaknesses, feeling that for others to see you so exposed in a raw state of emotion adds to the agony of the original event you are writing about. Especially those who want to be seen as strong all the time, they worry that so show any emotion other than strength of positivity is weakness. This façade

She read about amazing people she could never be, met friends she would never see, go on incredible adventures she would never have, in mystical places that didn't exist. Slipping inside the minds of others, feeling their every heartbeat, their passion and sorrow. Spending a life hopping between the pages, living a life less ordinary. Getting the life she had always dreamed of had never been so easy.

What do you love?
If I asked you, I already know what you would say. You would roll of many answers, you love your parents, you love your children, you love your pets, your home. You love to read, you'd list the books, to write, you love the sun on a warm day, you love music, you'd list the songs, you love art, meals, you love holidays.
Then when you've finished I'd tell you that you have missed something, the most important thing of all.
How long would it be, on a list of things you love to say that you love yourself?

There is a section in all our minds where the memories don't just get stored, they get engraved. They sit behind a sign that says 'Do Not Delete'. Although who put the sign there, I do not know.
The problem is we can't seem to control what goes in there. For as well as the gloriously high happy moments, the lowest most hurtful sad sorrowful ones get sucked in also. It's the place our minds wander to when we're tired or idle. It's not always a happy place to go.
But I think I have found my solution.
I flood my mind with memories and images of you. Even if you're doing nothing more than sipping your morning coffee, in the hope that with enough thought the sad memories will fall from prominence, obscured by those more positive.
So the next time you catch me staring glossy eyed at you and you ask me what I'm thinking.. and I answer 'nothing', you know what I'm doing.

Insomnia is a curse most of the time, unless you're by my side.
Because then each waking minute is another I get to spend with you.
I've spoken to you so much throughout this night.
Told you so many things that I would usually be afraid to say.
How much I've missed you.
How much I need you.
But you're here beside me and I'm more relaxed because you are.
You give me confidence to tell you how I truly feel.
To tell you how much you mean to me.
I normally find it hard to express myself because, believe it or not, even one so tough as I gets all mixed up with this feeling of love that grows stronger everyday inside of me.
Love is the only thing on this planet that scares me any more, and it's amazing.
I had no idea I could feel this way about you or anyone.
That's why I've had to tell you how I fell.

I only hope I can tell you all of this when you wake up.

When we reach a certain age we have opportunity to decide how we present ourselves to the world, and that age is getting ever younger. Even our young teenage generation is aware of fashion and we grow acutely more and more aware of how obsessed our society is with imagery and appearance. Or rather we become more aware that to get on in life we need to be brash and bright and sparkling all the time. That bright colours and big noises is what gets your through life, that any substance behind that is almost irrelevant to success. We only need look at who we proclaim as celebrities, who society rewards with wealth, that substance is not a prerequisite to success.




Be bright, make a statement, choose a bold look, dye your hair, pierce your body, paint it with permanent ink, wear outlandish clothes and don't be afraid to say something crude or mean or controversial because that's the person you are.




Or is it?




Is it that when you've done with the all the additions to your body, the person you look at in the mirror is no longer the real you. It is a character, the one you think society wants you to be, that society has convinced you that you want to be, substance optional. One of the most beautiful moments of conversation on and offline I've had with some people is when they surprise me, a comment or opinion with substance and thought, something away fro their character, revealing the real indivi

We're constantly reminded that this precious life is what you make of it. But what if you're not sure of what you want to make it into?
On the one hand there are those resolute in their life's agenda and objectives, often set by the scriptural society they choose to adhere to, or one passed down from parents and family. They know what they want because they allow themselves to be told what is important, to be guided by those who have gone before. A proven formula maybe, or an unrealistic dream. Is true success in ones life fairly measured against someone else's achievements, should we use those achievements of others as our own check list? Surely we will find happiness just as they have, or not, at the end of it.
The opposite end of the spectrum sees the tragic dreamers, unable to answer the question of why they're even here, the absence of knowing what their true calling is drives them close to insanity, desperate to live a meaningful life but haunted by the inability to see what constitutes as such. Often turning to artistic release to try and express themselves, their own high standards against which they measure themselves tragically, often fatally high.
I find myself somewhere in the middle. I know what society expects but I don't agree with all of it. Much I have to adhere to simply to exist. Fortunately an education grants me a career not a job, that in the current world gives me choices that others do not and I am thankful. But I'm concious that the wel

I was a hurricane. A
swirling blackness, no substance of my own but the remnants of the chaos and destruction I had caused was interwoven within my own fabric.
Then like the sunshine bursting through the dissipating clouds after an April shower, the rain drops audibly slowed to a silence, she settled me.
That was not the expectation.
Her soothing effect on me.
My heart.
My mind.
My feelings.

So many people share every last detail of their life on social media, every last crumb of information laid our before the world, or rather anyone interested in reading it. What they ate for lunch, what they watched on TV, what they bought to wear for the summer, countless images of their world, and their morning coffee. That's fine, play on, that is their choice, I merely prefer to retain an element of mystery. To keep some of my life my own. Sharing myself only fully with those whom I want to. Giving myself to those who will see it as the gift it truly is. A gift of self. For then they know, they mean something to me.