The Writer’s Block Within

Often it so happens that the best of us find ourselves in a fix. A puddle they cannot get away from, say, a piece of a puzzle that just does not fit right. It fails to appear, as it should, at least not quite like the way it comes to mind.

So it goes that the most verbose of us, for lack of a better word, at times are glued to a spot. How exactly you may ask? To begin with, the phrases running amuck in their brain propel themselves to the very tip of the tongue. Picture it in a way that a metric ton of weight is balanced on the needle of a syringe. It awaits the dreaded second to slip and fall apart into an unimaginable chaos. Yet, every time it tilts to a side, barely a microsecond away from kissing the wretched ground with its lips, it sways to the other side. Moreover, it continues to repeat the entire torturous activity.

Does it not seem familiar? The rushing words, begging to be uttered aloud. Yearning to be set free from these shackles of the fear of loneliness and abandonment, these are not mere words. Concealing their identity behind this garb, it is none other than our cursed emotions. Every thought, each spark of anger (otherwise believed to have been nipped in the bud), ignites into a fire that refuses to bow down. It fulfils its destiny to burn all that comes in its way. Just when you are about to give in to your dark desires and your innermost thoughts, your tongue surrenders.

It ceases to stand by you, declines to aid you in the path of your self-destruction. The words tumble to the end, crushed against each other, and fighting tooth and nail. Alas! It is all in vain. For the mind listens to no one but itself. A pile up of all things unsaid and unheard, so is the fate of these words.

“Words are all I have… “Is indeed true.

Now here is the actual dilemma: what is one expected to do in the face of such turmoil? The tussle of the heart and mind astounds everyone. Someone who pulls herself up and dusts off the pain, to cover her own wounds; what can she possibly say? There are no words left in her, to put it figuratively. Akin to a novelist staring outside the window of his home in Venice, with a finger floating, frozen on top of the fitting key of the typewriter. The writer’s block hits long before it is even welcome. Neither does the novelist move an inch, nor do the words come out to play.

Then again, maybe we all just go through a writer’s block, waiting for life’ to inspire. Until such a time arrives, one is cursed to carry the heavy heart of pain that lingers, along with the words, which hold their own. A battle that knows no end.

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