Along the Lines of Seconds

If we only took a second to breathe
We might realize
We are so much worse than we seem
We might realize
We are lying through our teeth
If only we took a second to breathe.

If we only took a second to feel
We might realize
We have turned into dark cold steel
We might realize
We don't know what's real
If we only took a second to feel.

If only we to a second to hear
We might realize
We are turning into all we fear
We might realize
We have cried our last tear
If only we took a second to hear.

If only we took a second

And stopped.

If only took a second to breathe
We might realize
We are so much stronger than we seem
We might realize
We have stopped lying through our teeth
If only we took a second breathe.

If only we took a second to feel
We might realize
We have melted our hard, cold steel
We might realize
We understand what it means to be real
If only we took a second to feel.

If only we took a second to hear
We might realize
We can overcome our deepest fear
We might realize
We can smile and save a tear
If only we took a second to hear.

Along the Lines of... of...

It feels like ages since I last wrote something beautiful.  Words have been tumbling out of my mind and hands more like a mudslide rather than silk as I'm used to.  It's frustrating, especially as I try to formulate some sort of a plot as November looms ever more imminent.  

There are two stories I've been mulling over, and as brilliant as I think they have the potential to be, I do not feel like I have the... wisdom?  Experience?  To write them.  Both would be huge challenges, but have such potential.  Since I am at a loss of words for anything else at the moment, I'll try to spell them out a little.

The first would take place either in a restaurant or on a bus or train.  Each chapter would be the story of how one person in that setting came to be where they are, and, if it were a bus or train, where they are going.  It would be the short, individual stories of otherwise insignificant people, were it not for the fact that they were there, in that particular place.  The ending would be challenging, and I still haven't clearly decided what it would be, and I don't want to spoil it if anyone decides they'd be interested in reading.

The other plot I've played with would be written from the view of an apartment.  Most stories give you the interactions, the conversations at work, the monotony or the extraordinary circumstances that the characters live in.  Mine, however, would give you the little pieces in between.  You wouldn't know what went on in the character's day, who they encountered, or the significant events that brought them home.  It would be a story open to the reader to piece together, as the small, "in-between" parts would be the only thing revealed throughout the novel. It would examine what makes us continue on when we seemingly have nothing, it would show the integrity of the characters, what they are like behind closed doors. Characters would come and go, sometimes in a small family of three trying to make ends meet or a single college graduate looking for the next best thing.

Maybe they sound more promising in my mind.  Both would be challenging in their own ways, and as I said, I don't know if I am the most "qualified" to write either of them at only eighteen.  I guess my worry is that either piece will turn into a more commercial piece of literature rather than literary fiction.  I want to be more of an Emily Bronte than Stephanie Meyer, and I'm worried I just don't have it in me right now.  My plots and characters deserve the talent they need to reach their full potential, and what if it turns out that I don't have that skill?