Unwanted Nightmare 1

Worst thing to happen to me, as a writer, is to lose the muse. It's utterly frustrating when you want to write but you're so overly critical that you believe the idea is too much. Henceforth, prohibiting you to write at all. Many things inspire me: music, art, experiences. I have been sitting here for about 15 minutes now, listening to song after song. Classical music, believe it or not, has this certain effect on me. Well, technically, instrumentals alone. I can sit there listening to Debussy or Vivaldi and imagine up a story just because I hear the piece. The instruments speaking, portraying a story the composers themselves never spoke about, a mere depiction of memories through musical notes. As though classical music opens up the senses of my imagination, "modern" music does the same at times. Listening to the words and the beat along with it. Imagining the story the artist is saying through his/her words. All in all the point is that music inspired me to sit here and just open up. Sounds funny how I'm saying what you should expect when I'm trying the best I can to be coy about it. Makes no sense so far, does it? Open your mind, close your eyes, just imagine.



I pick up the satin pointe ballet shoes I've had for a couple of years now. All tattered and torn but I keep them. The ivory keys begin to be gently pressed downward, a velvety tune begins to bring forth the rest of the instruments. Strings being carefully plucked by a bow, everything sounding smooth. A variety of sounds, divisions amongst the single most beautiful thing to hear. The divisions hold no hostilities, so they're in complete harmony. None over powering the other. I close my eyes, my thin body begins to sway. The tip of my feet perfectly pointed. My feet resembling a child tip-toeing on Christmas eve to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus. I begin to be carried toward the world I created. I'm alone surrounded by mirrors, a laminate wood flooring under my feet. My skin-tight, light rose colored leotard hugging me simultaneously as my tights do the same. The ribbons which I tie around my ankles hold my shoes in place. Little divisions as one, a single thing harmonized. No fear at all. I start to feel tired, weighty; I decided that I was done for the day...I leave the world I love.



When I can't write I feel dissatisfied. I leave the world I love. Writing, with the addition of music playing, makes me feel comforted. I feel weighty when the muse is gone.



I'm having a major writer's block now. It's difficult to keep on going when you don't have much to say at the moment.



I continued a walk to nowhere that I never finished. I climbed a hill today, sat there overlooking the sea. I wondered why I'm not able to write lately. Am I running out of ideas? Is my creativity diminishing? As I did all this, I was listening to my iPod. I felt I was in a scene of a movie, I'm guessing the movie of my own life. "I feel so melodramatic", I whispered with a chuckle. It is extremely difficult to write when you can't find the reason or the areas in which you should elaborate. I walked back home, took a well-deserved nap just to find myself in an unwanted nightmare.