This is the crappy writing I've done:

Can I write 2000 words in thirty minutes? No. No I cannot. But this is what I've written so far, on the subject of riots, which I have no experience in, but hell. Enjoy my choppy, repetitive crazy-bad thing some people are generous enough to call writing.

I ran. Excitement thrilled me; I was free, I was alive. Soon I would be caught in the crowd; the ebb and flow, the push and pull, the pulse and the motion and the fire of the crowd—that was what I wanted. That feeling of defiant helplessness—that was what a revolution was. You could feel it in your bones, in your veins; you could taste in the air, the fundamental change of human nature—if only for a moment. I had been in a riot before, and I had never felt angry—never vengeful—only free. Like I was changing the world just by existing.

If only.

The streets vanished behind me; I gave no more thought to Tracy and Katie and Steven, because I could not afford to have ties when I threw myself into the mob. I could get hurt, I could get killed, and it was so much easier to take that risk and be completely free and open and wild—flying, really—when I had no thought of the family I could leave behind. It was easier that way.

Soon I heard the roar of the crowd, and knew they were not yet at the White House—they were taking their time, destroying everything they could. Even the places that weren’t run by the government—although, what wasn’t run by the government nowadays? But perhaps they just wanted to make a statement; they wanted to show how far they were willing to go. Or they were so, so angry that it didn’t matter to them what they destroyed, as long as they could watch it burn.

I ran.

I saw them—spilling into the museum district, the tourist destination, that prized jewel of American history and splendor—the Smithsonian, the Lincoln Memorial, the Mall, and the White House, packed into a space less than a mile wide, and about to be burned. I saw them, screaming things—just screaming, deafening, mindless, wordless screams, and yet one could feel the meaning in them, could feel the anger and the oppression and the rebellion and the voice.

I reached the back person, brandishing my arms; I felt myself be swallowed by the crowd and I lost myself with a wave of fists before my eyes.

The energy passed through me, and I felt weapons in my hands—weapons of fire, of spirit and strength—and I threw them to the heavens. I felt the motion of bodies around me, even though the closest were nearly four feet away, chanting, screaming—demanding a sacrifice, I imagined, for the crimes done unto them. It moved forward, ever down the street, and I was suspended between people, and unable to act on my own accord. It didn’t matter in the slightest; even if I were capable of moving myself through this crowd, I would be in the same place; I would be singing the same song.

They moved around me like a river torrent, and I moved with them, a single lone body caught in the thrashing sea. But now—now I was not trapped in it; I was not sinking below the surface—I was riding the brilliant undulating waves on a board made of fury—of rage, of passion—and yet I felt none of it; I was above that, above the world—I threw my head back, and tasted the salt and bitter cold on my face, and let the violent water drench me through and through, and screamed and cried and thrashed; I could not be focused on this, not here. This was not a goal to be accomplished, or a battle to be won; this was a life to be lived.

I could make that life possible. I had to believe that; I had to feel it in the core of my veins. If I did not than I had wasted everything.

Did I? I had to.

Yeah, woo, I totally did not proofread this; I just want a distraction from the rest of my writing, which there is pretty much no way I will finish tonight. In other news, I wrote a kickass essay. Damn you, essay, for taking time away from NaNoWriMo! Damn you!