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wordblock

Half-finished stories are all I seem to have. Not even – stories that have no life, even halfway through. There is something I’m missing, something these stories need to pulse and grow, that I am not providing.

I don’t know if my lethargy is due to my lack of sustenance (brought on by lack of desire for sustenance), or to something else. But there’s always something…all these somethings…

So instead I feed off other blogs, and others’ art. That is the other side – art. After all, I work so, so visually that sometimes I feel like words only pale in comparison to what I can see in my mind. I try and describe everything that’s important to the atmosphere – bated, shallow breaths, pounding nostalgia of memories deep in the gut, the….the…but words fall away, and I’m left breathless at the vividness of the scene, and left frustrated at my loss of words. At my inability to call upon the right words, in the right combination, to allow others to enter my mind’s eye.

I want desperately to record my stories and tidbits of stories here, but there seems to be something blocking off the inspiration. I can almost sense it physically, this barrier of language.

Perhaps I am being too ambitious. Perhaps I should start off small, with simple bursts of emotion and sensation. Build from there.

Shuddering spasms. Two bodies close, but never close enough. Each with fingers twined and twisting around the other’s hair, manipulating the direction of each other’s lips and teeth. Each washing the other with hot breath and whispered words. And all the while, their spines arched and curved, rose and bowed sinuously. A predator-and-prey undulation. Every sense amplified, every nerve electric and pulsing. Just two bodies intent on creating. Pleasure. Heat. Sensation.

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Categories: art, fantasy, writing
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