Writing Marathon - New Orleans

ROUND 1 -
The bustling of people prevented my urging forward movement. Everyone moved every which way they needed, eyes on their screens and minds in their phones. 'Where's the connection,' I wondered, and with my hand to my head, turned towards Bourbon and remembered newer trends.

A small slender figure emerged frantically from the shadows, her clothes drenched completely and torn at the sleeves, or so I thought from what was left of them. Her mouth was turned up into a forced smile as she attempted to slip quietly away from the arms which had finally let her go. She had just turned a corner when a large group came parading down the street, pushing her back as if ushering her into her place. I turned then, not sure whether I was disgusted by the ideas I had of her previous encounter or simply by the fact that she was being pushed by a crowd of strangers just as I was though her fate remained severely different to mine. While she was forced once again into an alley of men still drunk on the night before, I was thrown before a group of street performers, dancing and laughing their way out of unmistakeable poverty.

ROUND 2 - Decator Street - Molly's
I once read that evil remains evil and good remains good, so long as one is careful to which side they stray. If you believe in something so much, you will eventually see it (for example seeing shapes in the clouds or images in the dark after watching a scary movie). Once something is seen it cannot be unseen and so I shall remain in my own thoughts although I do sometimes feel as if I am straying too far off of the pavement, scared I'll get lost in the vast corners of worlds I often imagine and dream of. I find myself continuously searching for newer faces among the older, newer opinions and sweeter smiles just as I have found on streets I had never walked through before.

ROUND 3 - Decator Street - Molly's
'You musn't mention that to anyone,' laughs the barista handing a customer a fourth beer, 'y'all know too many people cannot know these things'. He laughs along with her, contemplating what he's just heard. It occurs to me that each of us hear small captions and snippets of people's lives. Lines which continue into their whole lives but which only feature once in ours. Fascinating how passing comments of strangers somehow bring us to new conclusions while long essay structured talks from our closer friends may bring us often to nothing if they are structured too much. At times it is important to be influenced by more random outbursts, or even just a hello muttered by clerks and shop owners offering you a farewell and good day. I'm sitting at a wooden table with two other writers, whom are also filling their own pages with words which I shall soon discover. How can so many people have so many ideas and only manage to write some of them down without straying from their first train of thought? The path of a writer seems to be different from what I am taught at school. 'Don't go off topic,' they holler from the front of the classroom, 'you'll lose points for that,' and ask me whether I am 'okay' when they look at what I've written or drawn. It's like a breath of fresh air to be able to write freely and not worry about where it is taking me only to know that it is taking me somewhere. Different perhaps to the feeling that I must stick within a word limit and stick to some strategic method of earning points to get into a college far from home. My eyes stray back towards the setting around me, people with colored t shirts and striped hats line the counter, one, even two drinks per person, some deep in conversation with others and some with themselves. A bar is a good place to socialize and also a good place to write. While I first thought I would not manage to keep my thoughts in line in here, it turns out that a courtyard may not be the only place I can pour my heart out onto a page. Where quiet is nice and peaceful, the hustle bustle of people and the clanking of chairs against the bricked floor creates a new sense of inspiration.