Hoping, Crying, Waiting….

It has been a while since I have written anything. I have been battling writer’s block for enough months to be conferred a veteran soldier. Words have eluded me for so long that I am beginning to think that my creativity was more of an epiphany than a gift, like a fleeting solace to a soul searching wanderer. Many events have transpired in the past few months which were well capable of getting my creative juices flowing. But they have failed so spectacularly. To be fair, writing for me has never been a meticulous, time bound project. Although I am always found cooking plots in my head or creating rhyming couplets to weave into a new poem, they never amount to anything. I have not even found the proverbial muse yet, my holy grail which will bestow upon me it’s miraculous powers and turn everything I write into literary gold. Delusion and self destructiveness are something which has helped many a writers be prolific. But sadly I am sane enough, which by the way is also a mean to state on record that all those accidents just happen to me (contrary to popular belief). Like some other writers, I cannot make everything around me sound romantic. If that were true, the readers of this blog would be experiencing some really painful poetry since I am down with Rubella and have got some serious burns on my leg. But apparently Rubella itches more than it can inspire, which is a shame, given its exotic name. Hence tragically, a heart wrenching celebration of pain is unceremoniously replaced by the ramblings of a disease stricken girl who has slept too much during the day.

I have always written best in spurts, during those ecstatic moments when I am in a state of total abandon, while a magical force slowly creeps up beside me and I type away fearlessly and unabashedly. This is the only process of writing I am acquainted with and the best part of this process is that it has no pattern. I have written poems about pain after having a fantastic day and stories about loneliness after being spoilt rotten. Over the years I have grown to cherish these surprise rendezvous’ which have never failed to leave me exhilarated. Writing is one of the very few things which make me feel productive and alive. My biggest fear is that I will spend my entire life without understanding it’s purpose. It’s said that a man is born twice, once when he arrives in this world and the second time, when he realizes exactly why he has come to this world. I am yet to reach the time of my second birth, but I strongly feel that writing will lead me there. And this is the reason why I cannot bear the cold shoulder my words have been giving me lately. I have been leading every minute of my life with the ominous knowledge that it is being wasted. Whenever I hear an appealing word, I start conjuring glorious tales and poetries knit around it and it’s utterly agonizing to see all that ending with a whimper. I long for that joy again, when I create something out of my own imagination, a new world of which I am the master, people who act on my whim, feel what I want them to feel and speak the words I put in their mouths. There is so much I want to say, but I wonder where the voice is gone. I really hope it comes back soon to hold my hand and pull me back from dissolving into my otherwise colorless routine.

It is excruciating to wait for something when you don’t know if it is fated to return. It is even more torturous when you know that waiting is the only option. Here is to my words that remain unspoken and verses that remain unconsummated, may you find your voice soon……

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