This Is Sexy

People who write regularly sometimes say that they reach a point in writing when they cannot get anything out, cannot write any more, atleast temporarily; this is what they call 'the writer's block'. To overcome this they say you have to have a muse; a muse is someone who springs lust within, lust that makes you chase, the chase that inspires creativity, an inspiration that lasts only till it ends in sex; once the muse is attained like in the case of sex, it ceases to be a muse too.
Recently I could not write. This had nothing to do with a writer's block nor did I need a muse, atleast at this moment. I often ensure not to invest time in anything that does not affect me... "if something does not affect you it is not worth going through" I always say. Yet, this that I saw was a little too much to digest. I saw the war crimes caught on tape from the island nation submitted to the UN and other agencies that promise justice for the victims. Victims, people with skin, bones, heart, mind and soul, just like everyone else; it easily could have been you and me, had we born there and spoke the language for which they underwent this torture. Women being killed, stripped and their naked bodies teased... in the same order; children screaming from bunkers unable to reach the bombed bodies of their parents lying right in front of them fearing the awaiting bomber above them; girls raped along with their mother; people paraded naked, blindfolded and then shot point blank; lifeless bodies of children and mothers swamped in blood carrying them crying helplessly, asking, "what did these children do?"; unanswered, some old people already suffering the mercilessness of time being ripped to pieces, torn and bleeding, hardly whimpering nevertheless cry; truckloads of bodies heaped and to get more space stamped to crush them to make way for more space to crush in further more bodies; all this happening as the military who commit these acts against unarmed people cover these acts in their mobile phone cameras with laughter and a sense of pride.
The international community is quiet. Quiet just like me because it did not happen at my door step and thanks to the remote control and choice of channels, switching to a song and dance sequence is easy and healthier. These people, the victims of war and crime, in the mean time will be quiet, too weak to cry any more; hurt beyond repair, lifeless and voiceless. After water reaches your nose, why bother if it reaches your eye or covers you whole?!
Now, would anyone bother to read this post if it had been titled any different? Its hard to write when some things affect you beyond repair and it feels like being killed under water, with mouth closed shut, unable to scream, with no one to hear even if I did. Now the buck stops there even with me! Such unworthy, self-obsessed, selfish bastards we all are.

p.c: http://www.ashleyb.org/archives/001437.html