How To Show Thoughts In Writing นิยาย & เรื่องราว

I want to create something that will be a subway to my mind, a plane to my soul, and words that can explain my lungs. We can all write a book- but only few wants to bleed. Writing is bleeding. Letting your mind turn into thoughts and letting your pen run out of ink. It's being brave enough to express yourself without thinking about the monsters surrounding you- the ones who walks in the streets and not those the one you think that hides in your closet. “You alright?” I heard Grandpa's voice that made me brought back to my senses. “Huh-uhm.. yes..” “ You've been staring at the floor for almost a minute now. It might melt any

“And even when he returns, I’m afraid I’ll clam up and I won’t be able to explain myself properly.” “Then write it down,” Gertrude suggested, pulling a small notepad and a pen out of her purse. She handed it to me. “Put it on paper. I do that when I need to organize my thoughts, and it really helps.” I hesitated, then nodded. It was a good idea. If I could just find the right words, then maybe I could make him understand. Thea, too.

I threw myself down on the lounging couch next to her and thrust the coffee in her direction. "Here." She turned away from whatever she was writing in her notebook and looked at the coffee I was offering. "Thanks," she mumbled. She didn’t really look at me before turning back to her notebook. "What are you writing?" I asked. "I just thought it might help to get all my thoughts written down. You know, explain all that I was thinking that I haven’t been able to say. I’m just really–ugh, I don’t even know. It’s just a lot, you know?"

Someone else's memory, borrowed through a collision I still didn't have a framework for, was already fading at the edges like a photograph left in sunlight. He was angry. Not frightened, angry. Even at the end the anger was stronger than the fear. I underlined that. Like me, I thought. Then I crossed the thought out and kept writing. Damien was there. Present somehow at the edge of it, in the way a person can be the cause of something without being the instrument. Felt rather than seen. I wrote for several minutes without stopping. The facts first. The sequence. The emotional texture of it only where it was unavoidable, where it was itself information.

I stopped thinking when I remembered he would have read my thoughts. “It was effortlessly,” his soft voice came in again, “you can speak back to me. Don’t be surprised because I know what you are thinking. And am sorry for scaring you the first day I speak to you through my mind as my dad taught me, but am so glad it works out for good for me.” His voice kept silent for a while and then return, “you are trying to do that too.” I heard him laughing in my mind. Oh my god, this is madness. “No, not madness. I need to teach you what my dad taught me. You just have to close your eyes and imagine a door opened and then speak to me with your thought. After that, you won't have to imagined the door

It was such a heavy gaze that I couldn’t help but look away. “I needed time to think,” I muttered, getting choked up. “It – I –“ I had so much to say yet nothing to say all at the same time. It was weird and disconcerting how my brain went into a frenzy and then closed up when I tried to speak. “What are you thinking? I am curious,” she said. A hundred thoughts ran through my head but I could not communicate them in words properly so in the end, when I opened my mouth, all that came out was a truth I hadn’t acknowledged myself.

I deadpanned and walked back to the stove to continue stirring the soup I was making. "I don't mind that, but I would really like to know when you will be on the menu." He continued pestering me but I didn't allow him to read my thoughts. I have already figured out how the mind linking works, maybe a little but it's still something. If I didn't want him reading my thoughts, I already know what to do. I will only allow him to read my thoughts when I'm frustrated and don't want to write. All thanks to Theresa for explaining what it is to me.

I also wrote about Adrian and how calm and in control he had been when the world outside had scared me. The pen stopped for a moment. I didn't want to admit it, but my body remembered more than my mind did. I wrote down the little things first: The way my fingers curled and my hands clenched, the way my knees shook, and the sudden heat behind my eyes when I knew he was coming. I could see the patterns on the page clearly.

Her thoughts scattered, she tried to channel her emotions into her writing, her pen moving swiftly across the pages. “Dear Lila,” she began, her handwriting a bit uneven as she fought to concentrate. “I don’t even know where to start. Everything is changing so fast. I’m trying to keep it together, but it’s hard.” As she wrote, the heat intensified, causing her to pause momentarily. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the unsettling warmth spreading through her. “I feel lost and confused,” she continued, pushing through her discomfort. “I’m trying to understand this new life, and the things that happened today have made everything feel even more uncertain. I just wish

she says. “Okay, how do I do that?” I asked while scrunching by brows because of the headache I felt. “Well, close your eyes and picture in your mind a room with doors and windows, imagine that each window or door is an unwanted thought. To stop them from entering the room you have to close the windows and doors, it’s not going to be easy but give it a try,” she explained. As she said, I pictured the room with the doors and windows and began shutting each one, I felt the thoughts stop. My head felt so much lighter. “It worked, I can’t hear anything anymore,” I exclaimed with a smile on my face, “You have to keep practicing and don’t lose your handle on it.” She said while smiling. As we walk