Why not, why not try writing duly, forcing myself to do it if inspiration isn’t here. What’s stopping me after all? The wall I feel in my mind. But sometimes I start imagining the setting of a story. Until when I need to give names to my characters, to the places where actions happen, and there I stall. I am incapable of coming up with a name. Or I come up with too many, but not formed names, more of names embryos that aren’t satisfying, sounding as artificial or dead. As my dialogues used to be. I have the fire, the passion, the colors, but I miss the frame, the shape, the direction. And so, must I retrieve you before I retrieve writing again, or is it the other way around? What is blocking me from making any significant progress with Hazen. It’s too wide, too many possibilities. Of actions, of names. I scatter myself. You focus me.
The lands I am writing about used to be affluent and green.
And there I feel that haze is starting to accumulate behind my eyes. I’m not ready yet to write a story. Why? It tires me, drains my energy away.
Water flowed in rivers and filled lakes and marshes where life teemed. Forests and bushes grew in the fertile soil and the Icanatsu had chosen that land to settle and build their first villages. For thousands of years, they cultivated all kinds of crops, and grew vines and bred chickens and goats and donkeys.
But the world started changing and Icanar was not immune to that metamorphosis. What used to be a small town built mostly of wood and stone surrounded with fields and gardens and quiet bodies of water became an industrial port. New channels were dug to connect the rivers and trade with the rest of the world by boat, when Icanar horizon used to be much closer, almost at eye sight. The marshlands were dried up to provide new fields where to extend Icanar that became a metropolis with tall concrete towers and large industries throwing their wastes in the river, or burying them in the soil. As years passed, what used to be a delightful garden started become a dreary place of smoke and noise and dirt. The soil was blackened and where crops easily yielded twice a year, now they needed to be fed with artificial chemicals to yield but once a year. All the water but the river was dried up. Many trees in the forest that remained died. Acid rains poisoned the land. Heavy metals polluted the river.
I was born in Icanar. Not the place my grandparents tell about, but this dreary city clogged with cars and where every green place turns in a wasteland of plastic and cans and useless skeletons of everyday’s life. How to believe that once the world had been green and blue solely, when it was so gray now. The air thick with fumes when it was filled with the scents of flowers before. And as I grew up I understood why it had changed. Each couple of years, things worsened. The city grew larger, the forest had almost disappeared, the stench of the river increased. There were even more boats there.
And then one day everything collapsed. The economical empire Icanar was now part of was no more, there was no place where to send and sell the wares that were produced by the city’s industries. Everything went bankrupt. The ships were abandoned in the port until they sank or came aground on one of the river’s shores. Many buildings of the city were abandoned too, and life slowed down to a trickle. Water was cut from houses. It became a daily quest to find food and water. In a way, life became more real and interesting then. It wasn’t anymore this hazy thing where you went out each day in perfunctory patterns. Now each day could be the last, and we walked on the fine edge between life and death. It felt invigorating. I dared doing things I had never before. I questioned all what I had taken for granted. I explored the countryside, and I explored my inner psyche. The two went hand in hand, external and internal discovery.
And it is a little later that my powers started developing, that these things that had been forgotten for so long came back to life. Everything around was screwed and polluted and destroyed, but the land had still something to give for the few who knew to listen to its lament. It is at that time I understood each thing had a soul. I could stand close to a tree, my head against its trunk and see its memories, and feel how it felt, and learn about its inspirations. Inanimate things had souls too, but these souls were less outspoken and gained awareness very slowly in their existence as they grew up in age. But that story will have to wait another day, another time.
I still can’t write. Everything I write is hazy and distant and unfelt. I need to find you again to write. Listen to my silent pleas. Come back. Come back.