Revolution Amid Dry Spell

 

Things were falling apart fast in this country. There was a culling taking place, and scores of people were fleeing its shores in boats. I sat huddled on the dock with some other refugees.

"You know they're going to kill us, right?" a man in a green army jacket said glumly.

I felt the cold, numbing reality of his words. It was true. Those who weren't immediately useful to the cause were being executed en masse. I realized that I was among the not so useful, and it scared me.

"We have to hide. They'll be coming through here soon," I said.

----

That's all I can remember. I woke up as the dream was still congealing, so most of it went through the sieve. It's been several weeks since I've had anything even resembling a dream, so I haven't really had anything to write about. 

I'm spending my writing resources on an exercise called the Morning Pages, and it is really sucking all the creativity out of my brain. It isn't supposed to do that, so today, I may forego the exercise. It is Saturday, after all, and generally, I take a break from all responsibilities on this day.

The Morning Pages is basically a free form, stream of consciousness journal designed to get artists unblocked. One is to write three pages of anything and everything that enters one's mind. No judgment, no editing and no re-reading. Just plop. Like a morning dump. Out with the old to make room for the new. And like a morning dump, it is pretty much a private affair.

I haven't been following the prescription to a tee, though. I started re-reading them last night, and I found myself inserting commas and correcting various typos and poor word choices. I'm even thinking about dumping them on here, since this blog was--and is still--my primary dumping site. It's not any kind of finished product, but it's a good look at the thought process behind any writing I might produce.

If I. Were to. Produce any. Ever.

I am as honest with myself in this forum as I am in any written venue. Too honest, perhaps, but still not as honest as I am in my head. I know the real deal, and I'll admit it to myself, just not always on the written page. 

I have a special area of myself that is cordoned off and away from public view, away from my family, friends, even my therapist. I've only let one other person inside this zone, and they abandoned me, taking all my secrets with them. I promised myself that I'd never do that again, let someone depart with leaked bits of my posthumous memoirs before I've even published them. 

OK, Saturday, let's get going, shall we? Giddyup!