In March 2012, Congress passed with an overwhelming vote of 399-3 the “HR 347” law, or formerly known as the Federal Restricted Buildings and Grounds Improvement Act. The law basically allows the government to punish people who protest on grounds protected by the secret service or near any important officials of the united states (the president including). This seems to conflict with the first amendment of our constitution of free speech, particularly with the principle that states for the right of assembly and speech. So I wrote an extended metaphor describing the situation. We the people sit in this restaurant called the United States and are served rough words everyday, just like how one would get a well-done steak when he really wanted his done rare. We Americans chew on so much words we want to say to a point where we can’t chew anymore and spit out ever word we have bottled up for such a long time. But when we do that, not only are our words jumbled and disorganized, making miscommunication very likely, but the words are thrown back into our faces by the waiters who have “served” us, otherwise known as our officials that are supposed to be protecting us and not hindering us. 

A Rough Chew

Today’s meal was a rough chew

My steak was a cluster of pearls

So eager to be spat out

But only Into the dumps

So I punched all the buzzers

Hoping to slam down a generous few

Chunks of gold

You were disgusted by my chewed-up carcass

You took the chunks and threw it

Right in my face

But I must say that I’m sorry—

That my words are rough like pearls.

My muscles contract with spectacular labor

Crushing, clenching, cramming so many words

to say.

I get tired of holding it in

So I spit it out on the silver platter—

That very same platter you served with.

So that was my meal today

A well-done steak

A cracker chew that skins my teeth.

But I say, with utmost frank

That every day is a rough chew

For my words are always at stake.

All I need from you is a stake anew.

Please take my order and give me rare—

–rare words that chew like butter

That absorb with care

That bleed a gentle red

So that I can tip you with gold up of my sleeve

And leave you satisfied…

Sophia Chawala

This short prose piece is about ‘ Writer’s Mental Block”. Below is part of e-mail by Sophia Chawala.

” I also attached a short prose piece that is about a mind-block I had when I was trying to write. It was an Impromptu assignment I had once. I kept writing the same lines over and over again until I started describing my writers block.” 

Strange paradise (o_0??)

I have nothing to write about, I have nothing to write about…why do I have absolutely nothing to write about? The weather, so cloudy, humid and unclear, is interfering with work. I feel like a broken toy, not able to be fixed. Too bad all it can say is that same exact line, over and over again.

I have nothing to write about. Why won’t this line, this block go away? Why does it linger and dwell in my head? Every attempted step I make to move up always gets knocked down by boulders; I am falling into never ending confusion. Confusion… why confusion? The word blocks my mouth in uttering “why’s” all the time. Desperately, I try to break free from this tight knot that is holding me down from the light of intelligence.

I have nothing to write about. Damn. Just hearing one word strangles my throat and bangs violently against me like a church bell just inches away from my delicate ears. Five tons drag me down from success and freedom and that is just what I do not understand. Surrounded by circles and circles of people, I struggle to swim out of that sea and be alone on my own island, but it’s too opaque to see where I am going.

Faceless ideas without end are too afraid to show their face behind their disguises.  Come out and show me a way—take me onward to where I feel free from that crowded sea to the sharp, clear waters shining intensely its brightness. I wish to ride away on the gentle breeze, to feel that soothing sense of blank, yellow plains that sway with passion with the winds. Yes—I can see so clearly in this magical place. The pleasant weather fills the air with the shining sun, showing nature’s true face—and a beautiful look it is. The trees, standing tall and healthy with its lush, green bushes, stare proudly outward towards the heavy mountains. Sky, blue, clear sky, sends me going weightless and in never-ending ecstasy. One day, I will fly in those skies. One day, I’ll stand tall like the trees and the mountains. One day I’ll shine like the mighty ball of fire, the sun. One day—one day is what I wish for. My wish is to elude this turmoil and away to the place I love…my nature, my strange paradise.

But here I sit with a paper and pen before me, urging my right hand to work. What a shame that I am thousands of miles away from paradise. Here I drown in, not clear, but dark ragging seas. Here I suffer, for my trees are being chopped by greedy hands. Here I cry with misery, like the sky weeping rains of gloominess. Here I sit, surrounded by a sea of people, lost in the abyss, because I have nothing to write about.

Sophia Chawala