When your heart is empty, your head is empty!… The proverbial cliché inspite of being such a cliché is so darn true! When heart’s empty every thing else is meaningless.
This is not a night of bliss, I am not at peace.
I had a rough day, had a fight with my parents, a cold discussion with a Luke warm acquaintance, struggled my way through crowded trains and buses and the rains added on to make matters worse.
The events of the day have caused me to become refractory and annoyed, I argued, I fought and I complained. Life isn’t fair, there is no acceptance and there is no complacence, I said. But what I face now is a trouble greater than all, the most difficult and distressing..
What I face now is the very dreaded writer’s block, which is again if I am a writer. Considering the fact that my writing has not exactly eulogised nature’s beauty or the futility of human relationships, banished hunger and poverty or changed the world. Neither am I sure whether all writing is intended for that solely. However, though not of the latter but I am sure of it being a block of sorts. See, the thing with me is that I have always had words with me to an extent that I overused them sometimes. Every emotion brought along a splurge of words to describe it. Words were my only folly and in them was my respite.
But today is not like all those days. It seems as if a niche hole has been carved out in my heart and soul and I can clearly look through. Thoughts have not ceased but thinking with words has. So however gravely I feel like expressing my dejection today, I cannot. For some obscure, vague reason, I am not being able to. It’s like going for a funeral of your closest friend and realising that your tears are stuck. They have refrained from flowing and you cannot express your grief. And trust me its worse than the loss by death.
Am I turning into an intellectual lightweight? Or was I always one? Or is this what they call a block? although I don’t trust what ‘they’ say in the first place.
This is all very paralysing. It’s a strange confinement. I feel entrapped within myself. The inability to write, to be inspired to write, to be moved enough to be inspired makes me feel very…. Inadequate. And I hope it changes soon. Changes for good.
I think we all need a Muse, a prompt that stirs you and stirs in you…. Words otherwise are a façade only and the bubble might burst any moment.