Wrote this on my typewriter over the past two days...it's short and a bit unpolished, but not entirely crap.
Light me, light this; light my creative struggle. I now understand that my creative failure of recent months stems directly from my wanting. For I am wanting; not necessarily wanting to be a better writer, but wanting to know what to write, who to love, and wanting to know why...you know, the works. Living, rather than wishing to live is what should let me write, let me feel. Oh, but when I do... I will write in shades of lavender such as you could barely imagine, for I will paint you cocoanut as I bask in this sun-dried summer heat and slowly devour a sour lime pop. Our faces (mine and yours) will both glow with the sheen of summer heat induced sweat. I will run quietly from you, from your eyes and our forced interaction to the safety of an easle and electric pink canvas. Each succulent lime lick from my melting green pop will cause tiny green droplets to escape, falling and slowly biting into my moist pink tongue like stripes of blueberry twist paint slowly spreading onto canvas while my wrist, hand and fingers lovingly and carefully held the controls. Thick wet droplets of fluorescent liquid pool onto this long expanse of mahogany table from a previously forgotten popsicle stick, the joke tatooed has already come clear: "(Q)Why did the chicken cross the road? (A)To get to the other side." Half finished, my pink canvas sits collecting dust, color slowly fading in a shadow-ridden corner. Watch closely now, be careful not to miss the blur that is me. I am flying by, paint still in my hair, hands sticky from popsicle juice. I sprint out the door, onto the front lawn and twirl, staring up into the clear blue sky. I stop, because I'm dizzy, but then begin to run again, just for the sheer joy of movement. I run past your sunlit watching place, the porch, and smile to see butterflies flitting lazily through the pollen-heavy air. I speed down the slope, loving the feel of wind on my face, and slow as I reach the great birch that sits at the bottom of the hill, leaves swaying in the afternoon breeze. Beneath its shadowed gaze, I stop, and bend to catch my breath. Chest still heaving, I fall across the earth, head pillowed by the too-tall grass. I gaze for hours up at the light-wreathed leaves of my birch tree, and wonder at the birds that flit so quietly between her branches. I will tell them to sing, sing for summer, for beauty and for love. After what feels like days, a dragonfly lands peacefully on my toe. I stare down at it; the gorgeous jewel-toned wings, sapphire and lemon abdomen...this creature appears to me as the embodiment of pure natural beauty. She escapes up into the leaves as she feels the involuntary twitch of my foot; a spider hurries across my leg, obviously busy on some unidentifiable errand. Like me, busy in some way known only to the self. My job: discovering and utilating the true creative spirit within myself. His job: freak the arachnaphobic girl out so that she'll go running home to mommy, tail between her legs. Later, I bend down across the table to wipe clean forgotten drips of lime, and even later still, I dust off my pink canvas, adding fluorescent flowers to its electric visage. Weeks later, I pronounce myself done. This, my creation, is a popsicle, a spider, and the world, all in one.