You love the elegance and the grandeur,
Being led and spun and held close, then pushed away, then pulled close once more
The line of young dancers all strangely coordinated and seemingly lighthearted
You ignore the sunken look in his eyes, the defeated smile
He’s only doing this for you
You know it, but you pretend his smile is one of content and his eyes are filled with pleasure
Your hand is in his once more, he’s crushing its pale delicateness into dust
This shell that carries you: it’s frail and obsolete, and you’re cursed to house in it until the end
He knows it
He knows how weak your body is, and how easily he can break it if he chooses to
You’re nothing
Weak, crumbling dust pouring through his fingers and falling to the ground near his feet
You’re his and he will do as he pleases
All you can do is wait
And hope that this dance lasts forever

 (Re: I've been lazy! I've missed two days of writing, and today would be the third, and so, I have decided to post  some writing I did about  a month and a half ago while in Italy. I hope it's not terrible since it's not as spontaneous as the other trials I've been posting. Now those are terrible due to their spontaneity, so if this one is terrible then it's because my writing is just that, terrible. I worked on this while on a train to the beach for three hours, that's when my thoughts started to wander due to boredom... (fiction)) 
                                                 
                                                                                                                                                  14:25 Train to the Sea
    
      Six oval lights in two rows, twelve lights in total, are above her. Two seats in front, two seats in her row, four seats in total to complete a square, this small enclosure for the passengers of the 14:25 train to Loano. She’s facing the back of the train, not preferable, but necessary, as the train is packed to the brim with bodies. Lucky most travelers get off at the first few stops, so the mess has mostly dispersed. She did not enjoy the fifteen seconds of a stranger’s ass against her shoulder as the stranger attempted to make room for others to go around her sickeningly thick body. She also did not like change, and so this seat, annoyingly placed against the entrance of the cart, and facing the back of the train, was hers, until her destination was to be reached that is. Two more hours.
    
       What she didn’t mind was the young man sitting across from her. He was handsome and gave off the air of one untamed and untroubled, wild. His hair was shoulder length and finger brushed, a color that wasn’t quite honey, but she imagined that it smelled just as lovely, that he would wash it often and let it dry with the heat of the sun. She gazed at him as he stared out the window, eyes focused on the trees and rivers and mountains that drifted by. She imagined him thinking of the people who lived in the houses spread across the greenery, as she would. She imagined the two of them living on one of those farms, happily, with dogs, donkeys, and cows, maybe even a few chickens. Living with common live stock would convince them to give up eating meat, as they would not be able to imagine eating a member of the family. They’d be healthy and fit, in love with each other’s bodies, and their own. If he’d only turn around and see her, hear her thoughts, imagine what she imagined, then maybe they really could be happy, or some version of happiness that could last as long as a single glance. Who would know?
    
      The train continues on, the grass and trees blending into one green ribbon of textures and shadows and bursts of sunlight. Turn around, she thinks, but his eyes are focused, his manner is calm despite his wildness. His tanned arms are relaxed, large hands in his lap. She imagines his hands in her hair, gently massaging her scalp, telling her that life was indeed an endless chain of misery, but at least they had each other, he had her. She wanted to hear those words so badly, at least some version, any version.
    
      She sighs loudly, unintentionally. He turns. He looks into her eyes and she wonders what he might see in them. His are brown and beaming, and make her feel awake, like a rush of caffeine from the coffee color of his eyes. He's focused like before, but instead of out the window, on her.  She has goosebumps all over. Embarrassed, she turns away. She can only blush while remembering the life she’d just imagined for the two of them. She’s not sure how to react, and so, awkwardly, she turns. She meets his eyes again, he hasn’t turned away. Awkwardly, she smiles. For a moment nothing happens, her smile doesn’t falter, and his eyes don’t turn away. The train continues on, and the ribbons of green turn to ribbons of blue as they pass a river that seems so vast that it could actually be a lake, or maybe they've already arrived to the ocean, she isn’t sure. The moment passes, and then he’s smiling too, clearly amused, she assumes, and hopes it’s not out of laughter at her awkwardness. Could this be a version of happiness? This glace that lasts only a few seconds? She hopes so, and then his mouth opens as if preparing to speak-

(I've been lazy! I've missed two days of writing, and today would be the third, and so, I have decided to post  some writing I did about  a month and a half ago while in Italy. I hope it's not terrible since it's not as spontaneous as the other trials I've been posting. Now those are terrible due to their spontaneity, so if this one is terrible then it's because my writing is just that, terrible. Just know, I wrote this in an attempt to write something cute and romantic... (fiction))

                                                                                                                                                       We met by the Sea

        We met by the sea. Loano, in northern Italy, where our grandparents vacationed often. They said the air was good for their "salute," their health. We remember it clearly, the ocean, the mountains surrounding us, the air. We remember the hot sand beneath our feet, the sun's rays on our hands, our faces, our bodies, and we remember our youth. We were beautiful. Young, careless, ungrateful. We didn't think of the future or growing up or getting old, we thought only of the air, the salt water, and cold gelato sliding down our throats. We thought about kissing too, but I suppose what teenager doesn't think about kissing? We wanted so badly to kiss each other, but we also didn't understand this want, this desire.
    
       We didn't understand a lot the summer when we were both sixteen, both visiting our grandparents, who were friends and neighbors, while we were strangers to each other, both second generation Italians born in America, both outsiders in our own homeland. We were both shy, but with our hair a similar shade of brown, we took to each other, friends in the beginning, and enemies sometime after that, then friends again. We were in a daze. A daze of summer sun and ocean breeze, gelato and Nonna's cooking, like and dislike, but mostly like. We splashed in the cold, clear blue of the sea, and ran through the crowds on the shore, kicking up sand as we zigzagged between beach chairs and multicolored towels.
    
       We met in a homeland foreign to both of us, and we loved each other like no one loved before, at least in our minds. No one else mattered besides us. We were real, messy, jagged, but somehow still whole, well put together, Beautiful.
    
      Our cheeks were always wind-whipped red. We listen to the waves and breathed in the sea. 
     We stared off into the distance at the turtle shell shaped island and wondered if it was a giant turtle, or if people lived there, or if little tiny turtles rand the island themselves. We loved guessing. We chased after the gulls and ate chips  and had fresh fruit filled drinks.  The wind took away our troubles, and brought us good things. Our aunts would tell us that the wind took away the bad and brought the good; we didn't understand it then, but we learned and understood everything in time.

Dear You,

        Today it rained. The grass is soaked and the porch is wet, and I am a combination of the two. I watched the sky change from light to dark and the clouds shift across the plain. I felt the wind and it kissed my face the way you kiss me sometimes, roughly, passionately. The first drops hit my warm skin not long after the sky darkened and I let it soak me. It feels nice to stand still in the  rain. Feeling every individual drop fall across my back or on to my head. It’s lovely, really, you should try it some time. It’s cold and constant, it’s sort of like you. It stops. It’s gone. It’s back. It’s gone. Maybe you're rain. Maybe that’s why I like to stand in it, feeling the drops, letting it soak me to the bone. Did you feel the rain on your skin today? Like cold fingers running down your arm and giving you goose bumps. There’s static in it, somehow.
 
I miss you like the rain. I hope you rush in soon like the dark, like the clouds shifting. I want you, like a body needs water, like part of me is made up of you.

Please write me soon,

Me.
-
       I hate you like you hate me. I want you but you don’t want me. Or do you? I can’t tell. You want me, but I don’t want you. Or do I? It’s a mess. We’re a mess. I’m a mess, and so are you. It can’t work, it can work. It’s not real, it’s a fantasy. It’s a message, it’s a picture. Fake. Cold. Distant. Death. It’s numbered like our days, it’s numbered like heartbreaks, and it’s wrecked. We’re nothing. We could be something. Then it’ll end. It all ends. Like the reaper it will come, we can fear it or we can welcome it. Let’s run toward the end together, or walk, or crawl, or drag each other there. This thing isn’t a thing or is it a thing? Is it a real thing or a fake thing or thing that is real but can also be fake? Or is it fake with little bits of real? What is this fake or real thing? I can’t be sure. It’s numbered like the life of a flower, the life of a butterfly, the life of a person. It’s numbered. We’re numbered. Let’s count together. 1,2,3…  
-
        Why can’t you shut up for one damn minute? I’m tired of your voice and you retellings. I’m tired of you talking to me in that tone. That tone that drives me crazy and makes me feel like I should be hurting you to shut you up. Just shut up.
-
        “Did you like them?” she asks.

​        “I loved them,” he replies.

         She smiles. It’s the most beautiful response she has ever received before. She’s glad that it will be the last thing she’ll ever read. Her phone is on the ledge now, calm, no incoming messages to distract her. She looks from left to right at the amazing view before her. Sunset. The golden hues mixing with shades of pink and purple.

        “Beautiful,” she whispers as she looks down. She’s scared, but she’s ready. She looks up to the setting sun once more, then takes a deep breath. Her eyes flutter closed. She feels the cool air around her and wonders if it’s already over. It isn’t. She exhales. Her feet shuffle forward, closer, closer, to the edge. It’s time, she thinks. It’s time. She takes in one more deep breath. Her phone goes off, but if it’s him, he’ll never get a reply. If it’s anyone, they’ll never get a reply. At least, not from her. Dead girls can’t text back.

The strange inner workings of the mind: 

Silly, silly, silly girls with silly, silly, silly names
But I, the silliest of them all, with the silliest name, am no better than these silly creatures
With their silly desires, and silly trifles, and silly hearts
I am just as stupid as they, just as vulnerable and silly, silly, silly
But I wish I were not like these silly girls with their silly hearts and silly words
I wish I were not silly at all, just a regular not silly, silly, silly girl
With a heart that isn’t silly and no trifles at all
 
How about a rhyme?

I don’t shine
I don’t whine
Let’s drink wine
How about dine?
Will you be mine?
 
Lame lame lame
You’re so lame
Lame lame lame
This is lame
Blah blah blah
What a shame
Get It done
La la la
Have no fun
This sucks this sucks this sucks

And there it lie, the promising career of a young writer, dead. THE DEATH OF THE ART. The death of her passion. No career to leave behind a lasting impression. Nothing.  No one will remember the silly, silly, silly girl, or her silly, silly, silly heart.

​Fin.
 
 

     Why can’t I think of anything to write? What’s wrong with me? Why does my writing suck ass? Huh? What’s up with that? Why is this writer’s block bullshit getting me down? Why haven’t I been writing lately? HUH? What the fuck is going on? Also what is up with guys huh? They can talk sexy with you and then get bored with you and then disappear and then you just feel like a fucking idiot. Why do I always have to feel like a fucking idiot? Why can’t I just be a good fucking girl who doesn’t have to present herself as a sex object just for some fucking attention... How can I be different? I'm not sure what the fuck to do, like what the fuck am I supposed to do, who am I supposed to be? I should be myself right? Aren’t I doing that now? Maybe myself is just someone who likes being seen as a sex object and nothing more, maybe that’s all I’m meant to be, not some who is loved for random things that have nothing to do with sex. Can’t a guy like me for my wood sculptures? Or my lame paintings that I rarely do now because I’m just as uninspired with my art as I am with my writing? Why can’t a guy just want to hold my hand because my eyes are pretty, or some lame bullshit like that? It’s so frustrating. I‘m tired of trying to be more than I am. I’m just a mostly lazy, uninspired sort of artist type who puts out too fast and chases away anything good because I’m too scared of that stupid made up bullshit emotion called love. Love can’t be real because it ends and it breaks and real things should be infinite and not temporary or fucking dreadful. Fucking fuck I hate this world and I’m sick of trying to live in it and walk around with my shoulders slouched and my eyes down and fearing anything and everything and so much other bullshit. I really want to punch the fuck of someone right now. I can’t even begin to process these emotions, and also emotions are fucking bullshit. Where is that drug that makes you numb and unfeeling? I need it.  

Dear self,
Stop being such a dick and maybe things will get better.

Dear self,
Seriously, stop being a dick.

Dear self,
What’s going on with you lately, I’m not sure I like who you are becoming. Work on that.

Dear self,
What did I tell you about being such a dick? It’s like you’re not even listening to me anymore.

Dear self,
I miss you, where are you, I’ve lost you. Please, come back to me.

Dear self,
I fucking hate you, kill yourself.

Dear self,
I didn’t mean what I said last time, please forgive me?

Dear self,
You haven’t been answering my letters. I hope you’re alright, please let me know that you’re alright… I stay up thing about you, worrying. I miss you. Please write back soon.

Dear self,
You can’t ignore me forever. Stop being such a dick!

Dear self,
I’m not sure how long I can do this for. I love you, but I hate you. You can’t just ignore me.

Dear self,
Missing you.

Dear self,
I don’t think I can do this without you.

Dear self,
Please… answer me.

Dear self,
I’m so lonely without you.

Dear self,
How long do I have to wait?

Dear self,
Please…

Dear self,
…

Dear self,
I wish you could see this view.

Dear self,
I need you.

Dear self,
I hope the cool air chills my nerve endings. I don’t want to feel anymore. It’s too hard without you.

Dear self,
I’ve made a choice that I’m not sure you’d approve of.

Dear self,
If you want to stop me, meet me near the cliff face, cut through the sunflower field to get here faster.

Dear self,
It doesn’t look like you’re coming. I’m not sure I can keep waiting.

Dear self,
I love you.

Dear self,
I hate you.

Dear self,
Forgive me.

Dear self,
Don’t forget me. Please.

Dear self,
Goodbye.

I've been  having a lot of writer's block  this summer.  My plan for Italy was to write, write, and write some more, but so far I haven't done much. I'm disappointed in myself. I have to get past this hurdle now or I feel as though I never will. SO! Here is my new plan: For one hour a day, every day, I will write. It could be anything. Just to write. For practice. Lots of practice. Just to get the writing to flow out again.  

I asked a college classmate how to get passed my writer's black, and his advice was just to "write about your writer's block," and so I'm giving it a try. I'll write about how I can't write and then I'll see where that leads me. 

I hope I can face this challenge and win, I love winning. So, why not make it a competition?  I'm hoping my friends and reads will join me in this challenge, to write one hour a day, every day, for the rest of the summer., about anything and everything.  

Here's to getting passed writer's block! Let's hope I can do it!