Have you ever stared at the blinking "point of insertion" (yes, I did have Bus. Info Management yesterday) wondering where the hell your creative spirits went? And than you completely forget what you were trying to write about and watch tv? I think that's when you have to give up denail and admit to yourself that you're stuck. So I'll admit it. I'm stuck. There are writers who crank you a story a year, some who write a million a year, and some who write one book and disapear from the writing bussiness. Does the fact i'm even considering these things make me doomed to fall into the commercial poisonings of the writing company? A writers first novel is the best one. After that (not all the time of coarse but more often than not) they get sucked into writing for someone else, rather than themself. Themself? Did I even spell that write. So I'm stuck, writing-wise. I try to write and it comes out as self-absorbed, moody, emotional, crap that I'm so sickened by I can't even put my name on it. I'm in a weird place in my life. A state of waiting. Holding my breath waiting for something to happen. Good or bad, I'm waiting. Maybe that's why I'm stuck. Maybe I'm too concerned with myself and what I'm producing. Maybe I should just write and not care if it's complete and utter crap. But it's so... unsatisfying to write, and not write to your best. It's there, rumbling inside me. But I can't get it out. Maybe it has to grow. Maybe I've got something big to write, because these dry spells are often preceded by floods of writing, word after word, getting closer and closer to the that connection. I don't know what I mean by that connection only that I've found it and I've lost it countless times again and again. My mind is a hopeless, tangled, mess that can't even produce of single word worthy of being written.
The women in red shanked across the meadow and the belly dancer followed. Flowers cried bloody tears as person after person ended their last beginning. The belly dancer swayed silently behind the women, desperately pushing her mind to places away from the massacre of the innocent. She thought of the day she first met the women.
They had lived in a place that resonated with such wonder and still perfection that during the even the stars and the moon shined their favor from beyond the unseen. Not a soul in market places could have ever seen the darkness creeping on their peaceful existence, farther than the stars but fast and approaching. The belly dancer danced for coins though she didn't need to. She danced for the simple love of dance. A rare occurrence in most places but not here where everything was in such an abundance it was rare for someone to not work for the passion rather than the wealth. The women came up, her long hair flowing neatly down her back, her eyes kind and loving, and a dozen or so children trailing after her. She smiled at the belly dancer and motioned for each of her children to give their coins to the belly dancer. And every day the women returned with her numerous children to fill the belly dancers basket. "It's not necessary" The belly dancer insisted over and over but still the women came every day and filled her basket. Finally, in return of the woman’s generosity, the belly dancer had purchased a beautiful dress, made of the whitest fabric to represent the woman’s pure heart and gave it to the woman. She even bought the children little sweets that calmed a child’s energy to thank the giving family.
The belly dancer was struck with horror when she realized the woman’s dress was the same white one she had given her so long ag. Now, like everything else before the war, the color was just a faded memory, impossible to believe if it hadn’t been true. The belly dancer held back a hurricane of tears and thousand screamed frustration. Instead she continued to silently watch the woman cry her tears and scream her frustrations through death. The belly dancer noticed the women had become so deathly pale in their imprisonment her white skin seemed to mimic the moonlight and her eyes reflected the demons inside her. The memories struck the belly dancer so intense she could have mistaken them for her own.
Through eyes that weren’t hers she saw the woman’s children, beaten by their enemies for slightest whimper of unhappiness, and those that survived the beatings slowly starved to death. She could nearly feel the woman’s last remaining child leaning against his mother, taking his last gasping breath of tainted air while the women could do nothing to prevent it.
The woman in the dirty white dress soaked so fully in blood it was nearly black, closed her eyes and fell back into the field of dead children. “I have avenged my children with the enemies’ blood. Let me rest with them.” The women cut her last strands of life and drifted from the solid earth. The belly dancer, who hadn’t danced since her entire world has been taken hostage and imprisoned by her enemies, sang and stepped in harmony with the earth, begged for redemption for the dead. And with one last sorrowful tune sung out to reach the heavens, the young girl aged beyond her years, in the least bloody uniform, stolen from the enemy’s innocent walked across all that had been destroyed, and only cold memories followed.