yet another bad day
It’s been two days now. I have been deferring it; thinking up new excuses every time I sit before my laptop to write something. You have to write, nothing should come in your way, a hortatory voice urges me from somewhere inside me. And I summon all my imagination, all the thoughts, and sit before my laptop, stretch my fingers onto the keypad, fumble with few words, write them, then delete them, write them again, then slouch in the chair, and gesture to think about something, something new, something that has never been written, never been thought of, never been talked about, and tend to lose my grip, tend to succumb to my own fallacies, own false world, but then I see a kind of vision, coming to me to guide my ship through the violent water-waves to a tranquil place. I smile then and sit erect, as if now knowing the course of my words, sentences, and the story, to write the journey down on the paper.
It works in this way, and only in this way. It happens to you. It’s a kind of a call. Either it’s made for you, or it is not. You just can’t force it, a word to journey in the way you want it to. No sir!
I know it. Because, for last two days, I am braving the uncertain courses, but see no end to it, see no word coming out of my arsenal, see no battle taking place on my paper. Nothing, absolutely nothing.
I did scribble something, but is that what you would call a literature? Is that what you want to read of me? No. You want my heart on the paper, in the story, gluing words with words making sentences, then paragraphs, then pages, then an ache in the end, which would help you identify yourself with the passage, with the segue of my characters from one form to another, and help you relief of your pain, your inner turmoil. Isn’t this what that you want from me?
Writer’s say, this is a writer’s block. I say this is a block to your imagination. Ah! how it hurts to not being able to imagine, not being able to create a world of your own, not being able to talk to your characters, no one can understand. Only a writer, or to a certain extent a dreamer.
When I had started, I was said, write-and-write, no-matter-what-you-write, just keep on writing. Here and there, about this and that, over day and night, through peace to agitation, every time, all the time, write-and-write. Crap. Crap. Crap.
For last two days, I am writing only crap. I feel so enervated, I can’t explain. Something is not at peace with something.
So, to bring in the harmony I started reading some of my old, discarded stuffs and refined them. Though I wasn’t producing anything, I was, at least, making up with my old lost friends.