It strikes me gravely, to write such as this. This is not ability to write that I share but the inability to do so. It is no story of real drought and hunger that affect many a millions in this world. This is the story of just a single person starved on the keyboard. This is no story, in fact this is the absence of any story that I would like to share.
I must be frank, this is just a weeping. This certainly is going to be a boring piece to read. It has no happiness in it at all. No happy beginning, no happy happenings and certainly no happy endings that I know of. This is the grim story of myself and my pen, sitting together to write nothing. Its our explorations in the dark unfathomable shadows that we fear the most. If the darkness is what that scares the least, its the fearfully personal happenings that seemed to carve in the most.
Its been sometime, sometime now that the pen and paper had shown any mercy to me. No matter what I start writing I inevitably bump into that invisible wall that separates me from making any sense of what I write. Either I end up making a hash of it or even worse I end up stuck in the middle with both my pen and my mind refusing to budge a single inch. Its certainly not the lack of ideas or topics, but its the matter of the flow, no longer can I caress the piece of paper with ease and it has started to show. All those brilliant sparks die out the miserable death leaving me to fend on my own. Talk about being ditched by myself.
I do not know how long its going to be, till I can get a hold of myself and come back to the good old times. I can but only hope that it will all be alright, Anything more is too much to ask for. One thing is certain it has came back every single time it has happened to me. May be its inside somewhere in the hiding and if I look hard enough and let myself be inspired by life around me, then certainly it would come back one day