I call it the winter blues.
I wonder: why the winter BLUES when it's white? The world is white, but my mind is gray. A bleak gray. A gray so depressing, I'll spell it like this: grey. (I hate spelling gray with an "e" but now seems like the right time to do it.) I wish it were blue outside. Or green. Or orange, for crying out loud. Even though my room is a beautiful dark pink with a Hawaiian mural on one wall, the picture of tranquility, I am feeling a major case of the winter blues, minus the colors. Maybe the winter blahs would be more descriptive.
I haven't been writing much outside of school lately. My imagination's on strike. Even "Miriam's Isle" has lurched to a standstill. I had planned for it to be done by February. Ha ha. Peals of dull, sarcastic laughter chip at my fraying nerves whenever I think about it. I think the most I've done is a few school assignments, journal entries, several pathetic pages of my novel, and a random chunk of writing. The random chunk is a historical fiction, an unnamed character fleeing from the Pompeii eruption. I just poured it out randomly one night, but I'll post it here just for the heck of it.
I felt it before it arrived; the creeping heat of an evil God, washing over our bodies and bathing us in a salty sweat. The billowing cloud was so dark and threatening, looming over us, it seemed no longer a mere composition of vapor, but a solid object praying for our demise.
The air was hot as I breathed it in, not the sweet warmth of summer, where you can taste the olive trees and sunshine, but a choking, smoky heat that burned. There was nothing sweet about this heat by any stretch of imagination.
Next came the dense cloud of creeping ash, advancing over the worn dusty roads like a hideous creature. As my eyes grew wide in terror, despite the hot smoke that burned, I swore to the Gods I saw its gruesome mouth curving up into a vile grin. In my mind, the gray cloud took on the hideous fangs and eyes brimming with repugnant lust for blood—our blood.
The last thing that came was the darkness. The claustrophobic midnight that smothered Pompeii to death. The awful creature that swallowed us whole, too excited to torment us any longer. The darkness was not like the familiar blanket of night that conceals the often harsh reality of daylight, with fingers of glowing moonlight that pick out paths and breathe a soft pale light into what is necessary. No, this darkness was more like the locked door in a windowless room. The concealing black where children are punished, where sinister secrets flourish, and where nightmares take root and grow.
As the beloved town breathed in the scalding ashes, we felt ourselves sinking in the debris from Mount Vesuvius, shaking them off as often as we could. We knew if we failed to do this, we could be smothered beneath the crushing weight of this substance.
The ash coated the world in such abundance it was like snow. It was then, and only then, that I found out what it is like to suffocate. Not only with the heat and weight and crushing fear, but also with the terrible cries and moans of the people whose loved ones failed to escape. They cried for kin, and they cried for their lovers. They wept and moaned for their sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents, husbands and wives. For it was all of these unlucky folks who failed to escape from the dreaded creature who swallowed and suffocated this innocent town…who defeated Pompeii, by pounding it with nothing but ash—simple, insignificant, yet underestimated.
There you have it. My only productive piece of writing in days. It's a pretty random chunk, and I haven't read it over or anything, but I am fascinated by the Pompeii story. I want to read a historical fiction on it. Not the facts; I couldn't care less about the gases in the volcano; I want the (fake but intriguing) stories of the people. My aunt suggested I write a historical fiction on Pompeii, and I really liked the idea. I'll aim for a short story (mine are generally about fifteen pages).
Oh, there was one more thing I'm proud of. I wrote a "short" story, Watergirl--lame title, I know, but I'm working on it-- that was thirteen pages long. It's about a girl who loves swimming (ahem--me) and one summer finds herself turning into a fish, scale by scale. My character's name is Ashley and it was really fun to write about someone else for a change. No offense, Miria and Clarabelle, but they are kind of like buds that are so old you have little spats now and then. Ashley was a friend new enough and intriguing enough that I just went with what she did and let little things slide.
I have to write a freaking PLAY for my ELA class-- any ideas? I have none. The only things I know are
- My main character should be named Terranika
- I'll probably write a serious play, not a comedy
- That's pretty much it
So, all in all, I'm stumped. I mean, I played the Sims 2 for almost two hours today. It's pathetic. My relationship with The Sims is kind of weird. I know it's stupid, I don't get mad at people when they say it, but I find myself with a major urge to go on it now and then. I burn brain cells then log off and say, "Man, WHY did I waste all that time?" And then next week... Same thing. It's so dumb. I know I could do more constructive things, and yet I have 2 expansion packs, 4 stuff packs, a mod, custom content, and a lot of cheats. I just can't seem to get off for good. Oh, sure, I've gone probably about a month without it, but I always go back. It's like smoking.
So, thanks for listening for my pathetic ranting and whining. I don't blame you a bit if you quit a while ago. (But please at least read the Pompeii thing-- it's pretty cool, if you don't mind my braggingness. It's my only product in more than a week.)