Choices, Decisions, Options and any other word to mean the same thing

I could start this by stating that there are many decisions in one's everyday life. It's true really, but it's not everyday you have to come by a decision that really matters. In the end, when you're lying on your deathbed you're not going to remember whether you bought the two-inch or the three-inch heels, or if you had cheese or paid that extra dollar for beetroot. Pretty much likely you won't remember reading this, and I probably won't remember writing this. But then there comes the big decisions. There's living locations, careers, the people around you, those type of things, the biggies.
And then now it comes to my decision. A decision which I've been thinking over for the past couple of years, and have given many 'I don't knows' to the people who've asked. It's what I feel like everything has been leading up to, though I know it's not. And so, I do not know what to pick. I have my two options. One is what I always thought I was going to do. It was what, three years ago I felt I wanted to do, when I didn't understand things at all. But three years I didn't have to make this decision. And I still want to doing, partly. It's something I want to do because I've always wanted to do it. It's not a risk, I know I'll enjoy it and I'll be happy with it. And then there's the second decision. It's the one that if someone two years ago said I should consider it, I would laugh at them and wonder why they even bothered talking to me. But no one would say that to me, because no one would expect it off me. The basics of it started off as a, this might be a nice thing to try but there's better. And then it moved to an enjoyment of it. Then a fascination. And now, this. It's a risk, I don't actually think I'll be any good at it. But I think I'll enjoy it. And if I take that decision it means leaving here, and going off yonder.
So here's my question to you; which would you take, would you do what you know you'll enjoy, or would you take a risk for something that you might love?

A Bird's Dance

I was watching the birds today, out past the window. They were far off, a flock of them together. They were flying, seemingly going nowhere, just twisting and turning. Each time they turned a certain way, their bodies would catch in the sun, and they would erupt in a dazzle of shine, like a star exploding. Then they would turn again, and return to their normal bodies. They continued to twirl amongst the sky, almost like they were putting on a show, just for me. All of them together, a flock of birds going somewhere, but the purpose unknown. They wouldn’t have known I was watching them, I doubt they would have cared if they did. So they wouldn’t have known the smile that came across my face, as I watched their dance, and known that I was dancing mine.  

Wanna Do?

Isn't that a song name? I'm not sure, my music knowledge is so very limited. Oh well, that's not what I'm saying here.
What I'm asking for you to do this quick survey. You know how everyone claims their surveys to be quick but they take 3 hours. Well this one I can guarantee to be quick, it's only one question. It you do it, it will mean so so incredibly much, you really can't imagine how much.
http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/5RDYQHB
Thank you
Oh and it's anonymous and all that, so don't worry

Track Pants and Make-up

What sometimes amazes me is the things people, preferably girls, choose to wear out of the house. Sometimes close to nothing, other times you wonder if they owned a mirror or just used a photo of themselves from ten years ago to judge how they look. Now I want to seem patronizing, but the one thing that I can't get my head around is track pants. Not the track pants that actually look like you're about to go for a run, but the track pants that are baggy, faded and in my opinion, shouldn't go past the front fence. And then some decide to top it off with ugg boots. But what really amazes me, is that these girls demand that their faces be covered with power and gloss. It's like they spend so long on their faces, that they don't have any time to care about the rest of themselves. I wonder if they've realised that their body is fives times as big as their head (heightwise okay). I don't want to say that they look shoddy, but put together, it just makes me wonder. How can someone, who must obivously care about how they look, care so little about going out in clothes that look rundown? Either that or they think they look cool and I'm sure to their friends they do. But in the end, track pants is okay as long as you feel okay, but you don't need make up. If you have the confidence to wear track pants, you should have the confidence to show your face for the beauty it is. To me they don't, but hey, I'm just one person. So in my opinion, you can wear whatever you want, but if you wear track pants and ugg boots out, then you don't need make up.    

The Gravedigger's Skull

A skull will lie in the dust, no longer left to waiting. Sitting there, it’s remnants of memory are lost to life, all pieces of existence paid to death. What is there in a skull, to show the person that it used to inhabit? There is no hair, no lips, no eyes. A skull shows no gender.

To the gravedigger with his malice pick it is no different, each skull the same as the next. With a heavy trawl he pushes against the earth, defying the force of nature placed as a final barrier. There is no careful action as the wooden hand is prised upon the air. The gravedigger’s mind is not racing, he knows how he does not pause to stare, nor consider the life that once lived but thrives no longer. In the end it is not a persons’ body that will be remembered.

The skull is the first to be lifted from the bed of eternity, tossed in the hands of the gravedigger. Without gloves he feels the callouses, the spaces where there used to be eyes, lips, hair. He does not know its gender.

The body of bones he lets keep, rustling their frail limbs amongst the fickle linings. It is easy, a murmur comes, to claim the pieces left for their life beyond. The gravedigger slips what he gains into a small bag, slung to the side in an act of carelessness. Bag and bones alike.

The skull takes its rest upon the side, gathering cold that will not be felt. When done the gravedigger takes it to his hand, returns it to the head. The other bones do not show a form of order, left to continue their rest in the gravedigger’s careless choice. Air is once again left to the living.

The gravedigger leaves the grave, leaves the body, leaves the skull. He has taken his jewels, his diamonds of living. There is no more thought paid as he forgets the feeling of the skull in his hands. Soon he will catch another.

The gravedigger each time, will consider the skull, consider its wait, consider his own wait. When the future comes a skull will lie in its grave, no longer showing a remnant of memory. As the gravedigger now steals upon a skull, one day a man will come and steal upon his own. The new gravedigger then will think the same, and will only pause as he holds the skull in his hands. Never will he know the antics they shared, nor will he care just as his bag will lie careless in the dirt.

A skull will lie there, waiting without knowledge for the gravedigger to disrupt its settlement. The memory of its being will be indifferent to the act upon it.

Either way, it is just a skull. One that shows no traits of what used to be. No hair, no lips, no eyes. There is no gender. There is no life. There is no gravedigger.

Don't Fly Now

Through the skies it is a bird that flies. Not a plane, and certainly not Superman. Not at this hour at least, it is too dark for him to be out. So it must be a bird then. A large bird, it is seen from this depth; an eagle perhaps, or a hawk. Not an albatross, they don’t come by here. Pterodactyls only exist in stories. In the past they once were alive, but now stories is all that’s left for them. So a large, real bird. It does not matter really what type of bird, not to the person looking. So who is it that’s looking? Why it’s you, it is your eyes that see this bird high above. This bird it’s just diven down (fast fact diven is not a word, but when it is your mind anything can happen). It hasn’t gone for prey, if it had it's left empty, not reaching the ground before its wings are once again spilt out for flight. Soaring, cascading, find a word and put it to this bird, they all fit. What’s that you consider, there must be words that do not define this creature. Throw one to the air then, let in mull amongst the clouds and see what returns to the mind. It will fit. It is amongst these clouds that your word is thrown, that this bird flies. Dipping in, dipping out, swathing a vision of indecision. Much like that sentence wouldn’t you say. Where will this bird be tomorrow, it cannot fly forever. There will be a time, when the feathers settle beneath themselves, and the narrow eyes close to accept the dreams that wake. In the morning the bird will rise to join the sun’s waking song. But for now the birds flies.

Flies, a curious word, what can be made from it. Fly, flying, flight. A word to rise amongst the sky’s prison and set the world free. Flight. Take what you think of it, take what the dictionary says, and throw it. Throw it, as you did a word to describe the bird, to the clouds, but do not let it be like a boomerang, do not let it mull and return. Let it keep going, past the clouds, past the air, out into the stars. Let the moon consider what a bird is, whereas as you consider what a bird is. Such a difference wouldn’t you think.  It will however, be different to the person walking past on the sidewalk, you stand in the street. Flight. A bird lets its wings go to flight. A person, only wishes for it. But a person lets themselves be taken like the bird on a passage through the breeze of flight. Out they can go, out, up, down, sideways too. They will not be flying, but they will be in flight.

Ah this bird is growing further, vanishing more amongst the clouds. The time to watch is over, the time to think has come. So think, as the bird disappears, think. Of what, it is not named here, of what it does not matter. Just think. Perhaps the bird will be on your mind, perhaps the person on the sidewalk. And perhaps if you think, just let yourself think, you will be like the bird, and be taken on a passage through the breeze of flight.

The Story-Teller's Ballad

“Do you know when I write?” The wrinkled woman asked the child by her side.

“No.”

“I write when I feel nothing, when I want to feel.”

“We had an author come and he told us that he writes best when he’s emotional.”

“He would say that, he’s an author.”

“But you’re not an author.”

“No I’m not. I’m a story-teller.”

“What’s a story-teller?”

“A story-teller creates emotion with their words. They take something, an experience, a moment, and they twist it around in their hands. They turn it and flip it, and once done only then do they speak. They tell their story, they spread their magic.”

“Tell me a story then please.” The child moved closer to slide onto her lap, snuggling close.

Smiling, the old woman began. ...

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Archia/990982/