All of us are good at one thing. There are some who are blessed in different ways. But there is one thing that we really enjoy doing. We might not be the best, or even amongst the best. But then the superlative is a relative concept. What matters is that there is that one thing that gives you joy. And that one thing is what you live for, what you breathe for, what defines your very purpose in life.
Some of you might have no clue what I’m talking about. Never mind. You won’t understand this one. Move on.
I write. Words are my lifeblood and the rattle of keys or the scratch of pen on paper is my breath. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad. When I’m ecstatic, I struggle to find the right words. And when I’m heartbroken, I discover that I can’t write at all.
I write. I used to at least. And now, I try. This year seems to have been a bad one for words. They have dried up. There seems to be a veritable drought in the wordscapes. But then, I’m not much good at anything else. And so I continue to try. And try. Till I reach a point where I can write. Or…
After much effort and frustration, I decide to write about the block. Attack the demon head on. Maybe that would thwart its evil eye. Maybe that would bring back the words. And so here goes another attempt at breaking the famine. Let the words come.
…
Silence. Paralysing silence. Not a word comes forth. My hands shake in anticipation and I hold my breath as I wait. But my fingers don’t fly across the keyboard. They barely move. My mind doesn’t buzz with thoughts that can scarcely wait to leap on to the screen. There is nothing. And all I can do is report in numb desolation on this morbid phenomenon.
I try again. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have done this all my life. I can write. I can write about anything. I can write as anyone. I can express the pits and the peaks of human emotion. Of course I can write! Day after day, year after year, I have honed the person I was to become a writer; one who writes. I discarded all else as frivolous and superfluous. All I wanted was to write. All that mattered were the words. If there is one thing I can do, that is writing!
I look back at what I’ve written now. I struggled through some of these words. At other times, indignation and fury lent wings to my fingers. I seem to have achieved a few words, meagre yet substantial. Incoherent, disjointed, disturbing. But still words. I have written.
I write. That’s what I do. That’s what I am. And I will continue trying, spewing words out, till I find the old rhythm. Because, in that rhythm lies the heartbeat of my very existence. And till then, all wordscapes will see are these anguished outpourings, these desperate attempts at what used to be. Perhaps I will find a new way of being. But it will be a new way of writing. Because that is what being is for me. Nothing else will do.
Cogito Ergo Sum
Some of you might have no clue what I’m talking about. Never mind. You won’t understand this one. Move on.
I write. Words are my lifeblood and the rattle of keys or the scratch of pen on paper is my breath. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad. When I’m ecstatic, I struggle to find the right words. And when I’m heartbroken, I discover that I can’t write at all.
I write. I used to at least. And now, I try. This year seems to have been a bad one for words. They have dried up. There seems to be a veritable drought in the wordscapes. But then, I’m not much good at anything else. And so I continue to try. And try. Till I reach a point where I can write. Or…
After much effort and frustration, I decide to write about the block. Attack the demon head on. Maybe that would thwart its evil eye. Maybe that would bring back the words. And so here goes another attempt at breaking the famine. Let the words come.
…
Silence. Paralysing silence. Not a word comes forth. My hands shake in anticipation and I hold my breath as I wait. But my fingers don’t fly across the keyboard. They barely move. My mind doesn’t buzz with thoughts that can scarcely wait to leap on to the screen. There is nothing. And all I can do is report in numb desolation on this morbid phenomenon.
I try again. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have done this all my life. I can write. I can write about anything. I can write as anyone. I can express the pits and the peaks of human emotion. Of course I can write! Day after day, year after year, I have honed the person I was to become a writer; one who writes. I discarded all else as frivolous and superfluous. All I wanted was to write. All that mattered were the words. If there is one thing I can do, that is writing!
I look back at what I’ve written now. I struggled through some of these words. At other times, indignation and fury lent wings to my fingers. I seem to have achieved a few words, meagre yet substantial. Incoherent, disjointed, disturbing. But still words. I have written.
I write. That’s what I do. That’s what I am. And I will continue trying, spewing words out, till I find the old rhythm. Because, in that rhythm lies the heartbeat of my very existence. And till then, all wordscapes will see are these anguished outpourings, these desperate attempts at what used to be. Perhaps I will find a new way of being. But it will be a new way of writing. Because that is what being is for me. Nothing else will do.
Cogito Ergo Sum
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