Spilled Ink

Envision a tree, a tree at the edge of autumn and the brink of winter. A tree that will be going through the loss of leaves. A tree that will be exposed for all eyes, for all of nature, to see. Now, think of yourself. Envision a time you had to bare all, be cold to another’s stare and/or judgment. When you had to shed your clothes and the very material that hides your soul. Show us this you.

This is the third project [visit this page for up to date information on our projects and the projects we’re supporting] we’re putting out for the month of November. The first was for November 11, 2011 and the second was Appreciation for the Future.

For this project please use the tag #becomethetree. Do not submit links to us for this project. We will only be reblogging pieces from this particular tag!

If you have any questions or comments feel free to let us know!

Envision a tree, a tree at the edge of autumn and the brink of winter. A tree that will be going through the loss of leaves. A tree that will be exposed for all eyes, for all of nature, to see. Now, think of yourself. Envision a time you had to bare all, be cold to another’s stare and/or judgment. When you had to shed your clothes and the very material that hides your soul. Show us this you.

This is the third project [visit this page for up to date information on our projects and the projects we’re supporting] we’re putting out for the month of November. The first was for November 11, 2011 and the second was Appreciation for the Future.

For this project please use the tag #becomethetree. Do not submit links to us for this project. We will only be reblogging pieces from this particular tag!

If you have any questions or comments feel free to let us know!

readmyjam:

    We’ll walk these orange leaf-covered streets with our heads in the clouds. Scarves will tangle haphazardly around our necks, the multicoloured patterns swirling in the comfortable power of the autumnal winds. Hair of every colour will veil our freckled faces, and when the rain falls, it won’t be raindrops that splash onto our parched tongues but the sweet, fulfilling taste of beauty’s joyous tears. The smell of the rain lingers on when we’ve taken our fill, intertwining with the deep musky scent of damp trees, each a catalyst to our enraptured creativity. It’s time we sang to our pencils.

Words paint pictures
                             while
                                   pictures write words.