It is always like this; what makes me write will be
always the one that blocks me from writing.
I sit with my pen; scratch some lines on the empty white sheet in my
journal. Nothing comes to mind to
write. Not even a word. I never run out of ideas to write but there
are thousands all together, congested and culminated. I sit before my technical chaos which holds
alphabets in a zig-zag fashion and beg my thought process to create some words
which I could type and form something which could be made available for others
to read. Along with the chaos; the comments
from my beloveds to simplify my expressions, sits behind my shoulders and tap
my head once in a while when I twist some sentence, unintentionally.
Along with the block there exist a feel which makes
me sad adding fuel to my solitude. To
burst in to tears, roll over the floor and cry (now do not create another
abbreviation ROFC) might not take long time for me but I want my craziness to
live and die with me. I want to burst
into tears in my words, like a toddler who rolls over the floor and cry; I want
to roll my pen over my journal and cry.
This is not something anew for me, for that case, not new for any
writer. There are many journals, blogs,
books, and letters ends not just with ink dot but with colorless drop. The
world of a writer is filled with funny solitude and fun filled sadness. It is the world of insanity and craziness. He
or she finds meaning jut not in the words or in between the lines but in the
gap, the space, between the words and lines.
In the space between the lines there exists a writers’ heart, for the
words come after he or she puts his or her thoughts into words but the space
comes even before the words peeps out.
What makes me to write is always the one that
blocks me to write. I write just because
I want to write. Thousands of lines can
be created with no meanings in it but not even a word without a piece of heart
of a writer. Thousands of lines may go
in vain but once after the vent those lines give there comes just once sentence
which might change the entire universe of at least one being. I never question from where does the thought
to write comes because when I tend to enquire it stops flowing. Simply, like
the ground water exhausted when humans shoved deep down the earth to find more
water.
Other than pride, love and prejudice there exist
nothing to write. And thousands of
writers born on this planet wrote about all those things leaving nothing new
for the future generations to write. But, every word of a writer is new as it
holds the piece of his heart. Things
have to be retold, rewritten, and rephrased for the world to understand better
though not the retold things but at least the predecessors.
I knew, I never have got a stabilized and sanitized
mind but when I stabilize my thoughts and sanitize my emotions then I get stuck
in the writer’s block. It is like pushing someone in the mid sea that cannot
swim though he might not sink but he can not survive. To write everything should be looked at as
divine. Be it red lips of a woman or be
it a blood oozing out from a wound it should be looked at as divine in order to
write. When that divineness drops I end
up in the writer’s block. When the haste
for our creator and also the taste for the lust drop, I am entangled in the
writer’s block.
When the solitude is removed, sadness is vanished;
happiness is wiped out only the nothingness prevails where there is nothing to
write or no more to write.
