Going Back

I've been in a state of confusion regarding writing topics. I've also been in a rut with my dreams which not only affects my mental well-being, but also my writing. A lot of what I write is inspired by a dream or thought. Instead, I've been waking up tired and dreamless. I've had nothing to look forward to when I wake up which makes me feel even more tired. It's a morning routine to recant to myself what adventures I've been on while slumbering.

I'm not sure how to improve my dreams, but I've been returning to old (and unfinished) writings to try and siphon creativity from them. Here is something old that I'm working on completing. It kind of falls apart, but the first paragraph flows beautifully (in my mind) and I would love to complete it. The second one kind of jumbles around and I enjoy the third one. It all needs a lot of work and, cross your fingers, hopefully I can manage to work something out.




How sweet the sound of keys pressed softly in the dim glow of a fading sun. While dusky shadows trace a silhouette, fingers fold over the twinkle of each ivory bone. In the cramped corridors of what was once a pulsing nightclub, the silhouette plays for no one.

Outside, the city bustles. Like ants scavenging, the people follow an invisible trail, eyes trained to the floor. The pavement slops, wet with a gritty dirt that coats the city's streets and walls. Yet, the people don't see this. The streets are packed with jostling arms and pendulum legs swinging back and forth, back and forth, with no thought. People seem to move regardless of destination or will. Out here people have all the time in the world, but can't stop to breathe, or think, or listen.

From deep in the heart of the jungle grown from seeds of concrete and vines of steel comes a most unusual occurrence. Something has changed. People walk with the same automatic movement, but something, perhaps, seems different. Through the heavy stale sound of silence, a certain brightness brews. For most, the brightness, the twinkling lightness is a sensation almost forgotten.

He bleeds in a pool of inky black, slipping with his eyes closed. Around him business suits clatter by, each sleeve ending in a pale hand grasping the sleek leather handle of a briefcase. Skirts cut business appropriate short swing past, the puff of air moving slight his hair. His pants soak slow in the warm wet of his own life and when he opens his eyes, he’s staring at crotches jostling and cloth covered butts shuffling away.

It’s warm in his head, in a most unusual way. The leak in his side throbs less making it easier to focus, easier to steady himself on the ground. But with each movement, the warmness in his head seeps as if hot blood had never reached