The disco lights are a sight for sore eyes. They are shining in a rainbow patttern, even though there is a new color I am not recognizing. Is it Lavender or Mangeta? Will I be able to write about the mysterious color in the club? Probably not. My eyes shift to the people around me.
Girl doesn’t want to dance with boy.
Boy sulks; not very surprised since he is bound to be entitled, because he was raised in a patriarchal society.
Waves of guilt so strong that they are almost tangible, roll off the girl. We lock eyes and I can see that she is afraid that she has done something wrong. As I look away, I smile to myself. With a little research, I will be able to write about effects of patriarchy. At home, I grab a pen and a paper almost greedily, believing that words will come as easily as a grand jeté comes to a professional Ballerina.
5 minutes pass, 10 minutes pass, an hour passes and I haven’t written any thing. The pen is unfamiliar now: almost like a friend who betrays your trust beyond repair. Writer’s block is real!