The following is an excerpt from my novel manuscript. In case there is an eventual question of why I stayed silent the previous week, it should impress an idea of an eventual answer.
Then it came,
“My desert period as I call this full of agony decade in which prolonged my relation with him. Yes, it was agony, I had used to be an ocean, and then run dry and turned into a desert.”
She stopped to write. She stopped to be able to write. She stopped to mourn for being not able to write. She stopped wishing to be able at all; stopped feeling the need to express herself and share. She could not be impressed anymore by anything than her problems and fixations. Her ability to feel melted completely in the necessity to suffer; her suffering fulfilled her internal world from the bottoms of her soul to the summit of her thoughts, and replaced the sense of her sensitivity with the opposite meaning. She started feeling only for her pain because her happiness and beauty both were dead to be able to breathe for them any more.
“It was agony, I ceased to live.”
It was a feeling unknown until the moment, not because it had prolonged a decade in the time but because of its foreign scent, different taste. She had undergone emotional crises plenty of times before, yet these other times her pain had motivated her talent and she had written her best when she had been in suffering.
“I used to have my feelings do everything for me. When they were excited, they were the real artists creating in my place.”
Then it came the scribing in the place of her poetry.
“It was like craving to speak about my pain and being weaker than it, failing with bravery and unprepared to do it.”
And the agony would last for longer.
“It was like a closed room, loaded with stuff, and new piles were constantly entered.”
She seemed to have been unable to recycle her entrusted loads and when her internal space overloaded they simply stuffed the exit.A friend of her commented she was a scribing edict.
“I had a constant thirst to write down something. I used to spend all my time in the pub digging my nose in my notebook, not talking with the others on the table and scribing down sentences after sentences.”
Nothing particular, framed or defined,
“Not even my thoughts; only words, phrases and dots.”
She was a volcano that would not explode. A volcano unable to explode; unable to find an exit to clear away its loaded stuff, its poisons. It would only throw pieces of its tormented soul in the agony to clean up its inside and never succeed because the toxicity had already been quite over the convertible limit.
“I scribed on and on until my internal canals were unable to work more and fell into disuse.”
She stopped to write.
© author: Gallia G.
NaNoWriMo profile, http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/457824
This week is like a word machine, heartless and strictly producing. They are already 35,125 words and the iron monster is aiming for the usual succeeding portion of 2,500 words for today. If you feel to curse me, the fate has done enough. If I survive, I shall tell you the whole story. The story of me, experiencing her first novel, is a subject notable for a brand new one for it is more than surreal.