I put on 'The Hours' soundtrack for inspiration. Depressing music helps me. It didn't come. On my way home, I saw the homeless old lady again, and was inspired. Overcame with lethargicness, I put that idea aside and soon forgot about it. Tried to write something later in the night again, and still, nothing came. All I wrote were a few rubbishy sentences- just bad writing. Tossed the idea aside, and scanned through my working piece(a novel that hasn't got a promising future.) Found it undoubtly shitty and unsatisfactory. Again, I had no inspiration to edit anything.

I have not written in ages. It makes me so queasy and restless.

If I don't cut, I can't write. If I'm not in a black hole, I can't write.
I just feel like cutting right now, so that I can get back to writing.

And I don't know why, I'd like to post a prose that's available on my DA. For inspiration maybe? Hell whatever. I'm just a writer, trying to convey myself.

A Secret by Rafhana

Walking around again, in the empty corridors, walking into the dark and empty rooms, with rolled up sleeves, baring her war wounds. It was not pride, it was not hatred, it was beauty that they possessed that never failed to marvel her. How exquisite, how red and raw, how dead but alive it made her feel. Her eyes were open, but not seeing, she was merely contemplating her fate. Looking at her arms that were scarcely arms anymore, only a messy battlefield, she gazed upon a new light. This was not anger; this was not hate. It was not anything, but it was something. Something that told a story or a life she had wasted, trying to avoid it so desperately. Those war wounds were the marks of her making, her battle with the devil, the pack she made to her master, to vanquish innocence and bliss. It was not anger- it was only sadness. Remarkable sadness that she could not convey through tears, but only in blood. What agony, what a distasteful way to express, how much blood has been spilled.

There was no one at home. The house was empty, abandoned, unlived. It made her happy, for she could walk around bearing her scars. It has been long, since Emily saw her hands. She had hid it away from the world and herself for days. It was so typical of Emily; always keeping secrets, always needing a secret to hide. If there were no longer a secret, she would make a new one. Secrecy led her to this day. Secrets were the only way she could live, for then she would have a reason to live, to defend and hide it away. But today, she was alone. She had a secret she wanted to see.

It was no secret now; she had exposed herself to the emptiness of the house, and she said to the walls, ‘Look, here is my hand, here is my secret. Look at my war wounds; they are like the marks on you.’ Then she stood there in the darkness, beside the window where a ray of light was present. She raised her arm to the light again, to see the damage clearly.

It was amazement at first, then it was admiration for what she had done, and then a moment later it was hatred. It was foolish to be proud of her war wounds. It was foolish to adore them, for they were only sadness and repulsion. And yet, she pranced around, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, dancing like a graceful swan, her hair tossed in the air as if being blown by some magical wind. How much freedom she felt being so alone, how relieved it was to be able to bare everything. How easy it was, to embrace a secret.

She was spinning too fast, faster, faster, and she dropped down. Now she looked like a broken piece of glass, so deformed and unsightly. Now the light did not shine. Her arms looked like a disgraced masterpiece, and she pondered on the floor for a moment, and opened her eyes, not seeing. What fate is this, she thought, always living with secrets, always wanting a reason to stay alive? Was it not clear to her that the war wounds did not affect her anymore; she was so used to the pain and torture that it was redundant to inflict more? This was the time to die, to die and fade away forever. And the house was empty, alone, forbidding.

It was easy. It was easy keeping secrets. But it was not easy living with them.

There was a knock on the door outside and the footsteps became louder. Quickly she rolled down her sleeves. The secret became a secret again.

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