Writer's Block

Words crowd my mind, an endless ocean of words floating around trying to find an outlet, trying to find somewhere to rest. The need to write is like a primal instinct stemming from the marrow of my bones, breaking through my genetic makeup, making its way through my cells, desperately trying to empty my mind of all those words.

So many words.

Everything inside me slowly rises to a boil, words and a basic need mingling and creating a new substance, a nameless hue of emotions that explodes just underneath the surface of my skin. The explosion collects at my throat, constricting the airway, choking me on its way out.

My words will escape.

My fingers are poised and ready, waiting for the dam to break and for all those words to pour out of my soul. I wait for them, shaking, anxious for the flood. More of the explosion gathers at my neck, I can taste it on the back of my tongue, I can feel it clawing its way out of me. I feel my words nearing, the wait lengthens but no words come out.

My words are stuck.

Hundreds and hundreds of words, that nameless color of feeling, they all gather in my throat but the road is blocked. It's too much for me, I gag and try to force them out of my airway but they are welded in place and refuse to move. I scratch at my throat, tears gather in my eyes, I cannot breathe, I cannot speak, I cannot cry. I am stuck, I am choking and my whole body is shuddering -an earthquake trying to dislodge the rocks.

I choke on my words.

I claw at my neck, fingers scoring the skin and trying to dig the words out. Gag, scratch, shudder, shake but the words are fused and they don't break. Tears wash my eyes, refusing to fall, hands fall to my sides, refusing to try, legs collapse, refusing to fight. I swallow hard.

My words pass down.

My stomach clenches, holding the storm within, clearing my airway just enough to let me barely live. Words keep boiling inside me, the need to write battles the bars of its new prison, I am still choking and yet somehow I can breathe. I am stuck, breathing air that is nowhere near enough, explosion after explosion barely contained within my flesh, emotions I can't name nor can I understand boiling under my skin and all I can say, all that comes out is a burning question -how do I let my words out?

How, indeed?

December 11, 2013

He Was There

He was there, I was here and the world was all the way over there. He had a shovel in his hand, and another was on the ground. We were friends, and so I helped him move out the sand. We dug for days, we dug for years. It became so my heart will beat, my lungs will breathe and my hands will dig.

It was dark, and I could barely see, but I knew in my heart of hearts that our pit was done. I looked up and he wasn't digging and it hits me with a shock; had he ever done any work? Had his shovel ever even kissed the ground? I look to my hole, and my heart sinks to my soles. I look back up and I see the red in his eyes, I see the jagged teeth and I hear all the lies. Had they always been there -was I truly that blind?

I finally understand and see what has already been done. I had dug my own grave, and I wouldn't see another sun. 

Being A Tree

I wonder what it feels like to be a tree; a giant oak or some solid tree of some sort. I wonder how it would feel to be planted firmly within the ground, imprisoned by that which keeps me alive. I wonder so many things when I see a tree, and I wish it could speak and give me the answers I seek.

I wonder does it mourn the passing of time. Does it ever feel sad to see the world moving on while it stays fixed to the ground? I wonder if it finds solace in growing in length and in strength, or if the pain of staying is too great for relief?

I wonder if jealousy ever touches its heart. I wonder how it feels when it sees creatures of all kinds walking past; does it hurt that they can choose where to rest when it had no choice at all?

I wonder does it fear nature's wrath. Does it ever feel bound and helpless when nature strikes and it must stay and take it in stillness? Does it hurt when hail breaks its branches and it can't so much as shed a tear, does it hurt when lightning strikes it and it can't so much as let out a scream?

Are you afraid, tree? Are you hurt? Are you sad? Are you crying inside? Are those whimpers I hear or are they truly the rustling of leaves? Are you as strong and proud as you seem, or are you dying inside? Are you truly a shelter for all or do you need to be sheltered as well?

Tell me your secrets, please, tell me how you survive. Patience? Is that the key? Then please, my dearest tree, lend me some for I know exactly how you feel. 

Making Physics Bend

What do you do when your brain has reached full saturation? How do you proceed to inject a mountain's worth of information into your skull when it's full to the brim and you can't find even the tiniest free space? I wish I knew the answers to those questions, I wish there was an easy answer.

Being a medical student is like having a suitcase for a brain. You start packing, and at first it goes really well, you fold everything and put it in neatly and think to yourself that of course it will all fit in. But then time starts to fly by, seconds whizzing past and turning into hours and the packing isn't anywhere near done. Sweat starts to bead on your forehead, a cold panic creeping up your back as you desperately try to ignore that voice that's telling you that it won't be enough, that there just isn't space. You fight the voice away, ignoring it with everything you've got and keep packing. You just keep folding things with shaking fingers, making it harder to stay neat, harder to stay optimistic, harder to find enough space.

You keep working, fumbling through your task with nothing keeping you going but a sense of dedication, panic and the tick-tock of the clock. And then suddenly you look up, and you see for the first time that the bag is full, it's more than full, and there isn't room for anything more. The clock keeps ticking, your despair keeps growing as you stare at the piles of information around you and wonder how on earth you'll find a way to make this work. Panic, despair, fear and overwhelming exhaustion are your only allies as you stare an undoable task in the face. You wonder if you jumped on the bag, if you sat on it with all your might would you be able to close it? Can you find extra space?

The strangest thing of all is that even though time never stops ticking by, threatening you with that looming deadline, and even though there truly isn't enough space, in the end you make it work. Med students are magicians, we stare an impossible task in the eyes and with a battle scream coming straight from our souls we bend the laws of physics, we create invisible extra compartments, we shove that information in and we close the bag and we do it all in time. That is a fact. But in that period of time before those magical powers kick in, desperation and doubt are our only friends and we find ourselves blinking back tears, wondering how on earth to make physics bend? 

Colors Lurking in Darkness

I am that overwhelming darkness, the  kind that robs away all hope of light. I am a deep shadow, I am night in the deepest ocean. I am what remains when all things are lacking, I am what you see when your sight is blacking. I am black in its truest form.

I am misconceived, I am judged and I am mistakenly seen. I am peaceful, but not eerie. I am mysterious, but not scary. I am lacking, but I am living. I am so much more than what you can see -you see black alone, but I have colors that lurk beneath. I am darkness, that's true, but I am also more.

In the crudeness of light nothing can be hidden, you see everything and so hope is entrapped by clarity and sight. But darkness is subtle, it shrouds the world in shadow and so everything is perceived but not truly seen. In darkness hope is alive, it thrives and whispers; there's more to life than what's in your sight.

I am that mystery, I am that hope, I live that peace. I am layer upon layer, I am vast and I am dark. I am those colors lurking in darkness, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be seen. 

When The Battle Ends

I used to write. I still do, but it's not quite the same. I used to write more often than I did anything else. A day wouldn't go by without me writing something, anything. Every time my fingers met the keyboard creativity was born. But that has changed, or am I the one who changed? I can't tell, I don't even know what the difference is. Is it that in one scenario circumstances are to blame, but in the other the blame falls on my shoulders? If I am to be honest, perhaps it isn't one or the other -it's both.

The world is so distracting. A mixture of loneliness and abundant stress lead to me acquiring a million distractions. Distractions that soon turned into obsessions that I claim are hobbies, but I'm in denial. The truth of it is that I escape reality most of reality. My days have become a haze of fiction, not the stimulating fiction that used to shock my mind and awaken my brain cells with a hundred different thoughts -the fiction that lulls my senses to sleep and slowly buries everything that is me under layers and layers of nonsense. I don't read as often as I used to, I don't write as often as I used to; I don't think as often as I used to.

Life drove me into a cave of sensory deprivation, but life isn't to blame for how I ended up. The moment I found myself locked within those rocky walls I flattened myself to the earth, accepting my prison and making it my home. I am ashamed of myself, I am ashamed of what I have become and I am ashamed of everything that I have lost.

It's years later, and I feel like I just woke up and what I see is a nightmare. I see just another automaton of a girl, lacking in creativity, lacking in the ability to imagine and living a dull, reality filled life. I see someone I would have once made fun of, or felt sorry for. I see a girl shackled to the ground, born with wings that were rendered useless by years of disuse, and I see that girl holding the keys to her bonds unaware of how to break free. Sometimes the bonds we tie ourselves are the hardest to tear apart.

I will read more. I will watch less and see more. I will go back to appreciating the silence. I will go back to seeing colors beyond the darkness. I will write until it feels right. I will saw through my chains with my teeth if I must, I will do all that it takes and even more. I will find that girl that used to be me, and I will learn how to be her all over again. When this battle ends, I will break free and finally be me.