Creative writing log

Hey. I hope it's alright to keep a thread here that I update daily with creative writings. I have no writing skills in any way but I have a lot of time to myself in the coming weeks and wanted to engage my creative side as much as possible. I did around 1 hours work today. I just found a random online article that advised starting off with word associations and similies and trying to create metaphors, and somehow from there I concocted the following tale. I'd appreciate any feedback - the stuff I post will be very different every day I hope. I'll do my best to contribute elsewhere to return the favour.

The Sun sets each day in its familiar bed. It needs its rest too; it can’t be easy bringing warmth and happiness to a world of despair. Like a volcanic eruption it rises again, spreading its addictive rays at terrific speed, covering all before it with the most gentle of alarm clock beeps. Not many would rush to hit snooze on the Sun but only the Sun itself. As the day wears on, its shades of yellow, red and orange indicate its enthusiasm and one must credit the Sun for the enthusiasm it shows day in and day out. But in its old age the Sun must often cool down. It finds comfort momentarily behind its fluffy friends. Momentarily, as the impatience from below filters through before its fiery belly has been reenergised. It must keep smiling until the childlike excitement below wears thin. Only then do we allow the Sun the luxury of rest as it slowly moves from the horizon like a flaming drunk stumbling to their abode. One should always wish the Sun sweet dreams to show we care.

Not enough times does the Sun hear our well wishes. It gets upset by the constant pressure on it to deliver. Many years ago it had loyal followers – people who paid it regular homage, people who lived to show their appreciation. They didn’t call it ‘It’ nor did they demand its continuous love and affection – they merely worshipped it; called it their God. The Sun wishes that time would return. It sends us warnings to display its unease. Nothing too drastic for it is a kind soul deep down but its relationship with the people below grows thin.

The waves, controlled by the Sun’s antithesis, the Moon, are more youthful than the Sun and boast this through their relentless and untiring activity. Their primary concern is adding to their collection of valuables – they crash in and take hold of what they can, like a child with one swoop at a candy jar. As if they do not know that they have all the time in the world.Perhaps their pleasure comes not in the valuables they obtain, but through the nature of their collection. Their somewhat menacing nature can alarm those on the land before them. Sometimes, we wish the waves would grow up, and not taunt and tease the inhabitants of the land. But, much like a sociopathic killer, they show no remorse when they take all that lies before them; all they leave is the debris and the reminder that they too exist on this planet. Other times they crash the shores like a gentle breeze, comforting those who lie in their path; these drastic mood swings cannot be controlled. Perhaps, they too, like the Sun, demand more recognition than we afford them. It is not easy to understand the way of the waves.

The people of the land, as complicated as each wave and ray of sun that protrude upon them, have forgotten the past that has ensured their existence; they disregard the Sun and the waves unless they are of benefit to them. They steal from the Sun and the waves to prolong their survival, never considering the notion that their survival depends on their relationship withthem. They no longer pay homage to their overpowering entities and, yet, they now, more than ever, they take and take. If there is to be any hope for the people, they must change their ways. The waves are keeping notes and have made plans to contact the Sun but first there are millennia-old matters to be resolved between the Moon and its brother.