The Writers' Circle

An unholy mass of desolution. A man's head must be clear to experience this place; otherwise all his problems would topple out through the holes in his head onto the bleeding ground. They will hit, and nobody, up here, will feel the tremors. The people find a way to live; it is the earth that truly suffers. The sky is sad or angry. When it is sad it mourns for the beings below and weeps. But, as the old women sing about to their eager grandchildren, the floor angered the sky and was to be scorched for one thousand years as punishment. The sun is the sky's demon. The heat cannot be cut yet it is so thick that the long awaited wind does not dare to pass. Eyes jerk madly, searching for the rays; you cannot believe such brutal pain is hidden. Overbearing, the cragged stone sits in the eyes view, company in the desperation. As you walk toward the rock, for you cannot run, much like jogging through water, it will beat you down until you are weak. The stone is not as large up close but seems enormous in the bare landscape. There is a blackened cave at the very bottom, it seems too small, but you can crawl inside, for it opens up into a grand hallway, deliciously cool and hidden. Broken fragments of silence writhe on the floor, struggling for air as the symphonic drumbeat echoes from the floor below. The pulse continues for what seems like a long wait, but the cave does that sometimes, exaggerates what is really there. Vivid sounds of the market begin. As you struggle to clamber down a narrow stairway, it opens up, the thrill of life pumps the blood around your body at a staggering rate and the colours of the earth are reawakened as if all you have ever seen was the faded terracotta which drowns the surface. 
The people down here do not notice me. They are distracted by negotiating vendors and steaming broths. Even the children, who have always been more aware of my presence, are engrossed by the sights and smells and sounds of the market. I stand, quite bare against these people, I think of myself as the fading maple against glorious pines. A woman takes my hand, as if she knows why I have sought this place, and sits me down on the floor. A bowl is placed in front of my nose with a liquid inside that resembles petrol, but smells far too sweet. She gestures for me to drink but of course I am hesitant. She takes the bowl and sips it to show me as if I am so primitive that I do not understand the concept. When I am finished she pulls at my face and gestures me to stay. I am suddenly incredibly hot and my face feels like it is burning.