It has been long since I’ve written something and as the days are passing by, the time I have last written seems archaic. Sometimes, I sit down at the desk with the pen and the paper and try to write down the words, that come to my mind in the light of the moment. But all hopes come crashing down whenever the challenge of writing a full paragraph present itself.
The blank pages keep staring at me, and the more I stare back at it, I could feel its awkward grin on my perplexed face. I look away intimidated by the presence of these simple objects, crushing them into the dustbin. The disappointment comes from within along with fear of never being able to write again. The despair is comparable to a person who has recently lost his/her voice. I feel as if my hands are tied with the shackles of infinite burdens, and for some reason the courageous self inside me has become dormant, unable to break free from all these weights.
And along with this fear comes the emptiness. The darkness that is shrouded by the sunlight. Like a portal to another dimension, the void inside me opens up and like a wound it bleeds this darkness profusely. I get lost in the echoes of the train of thoughts inside my head. The thin line between subconscious and conscious mind blurs as the hallucinations becomes more frequent than often.
One fine night, when you have had bad food and your stomach churns from within, the sensation you get on pressing your palms tightly on your stomach is exactly the same, for the hollowness inside me. There is a storm battling its way through this void disrupting the body clock and decaying the reasoning mind. I look for the oasis in the otherwise dry desert.
But they say, a writer cannot be suppressed in the most dire conditions. And somehow, in this dry desert, in the raging storm of my hollowness I find myself again at the desk sitting with a pen and scribbling on the paper, masking the awkward grin of this reality.