Well, I don’t know if I should say hello when you are busy bidding temporary goodbyes to the swift zephyrs of words that heal your scars by lingering over your bruised face and when you are sitting over the parched rock which Is left dry by the waterfall of thoughts that has been blocked by a broken, big piece of the surrounding mountain of dull and uninspired stones and gravel: But This Is For YOU!
I know you must be feeling like a fish that unintentionally made it’s way to a scorched and baked desert where nothing suits it’s general temperament and no matter how many oases it spots, not even a single drop of water can be gifted to it’s dry throat choking with thirst.
You feel like the tree trying to water its roots in a hope to see green leaves embellishing its branches but no amount of water and gardening is helping out. Maybe, you even feel worst than the bird who was living peacefully in her self built nest but lost her home as the woodcutter came and knocked the tree down. No matter what you do, how much you try, THE BLOCK ain’t sparing you and is paining you to an undefinable extent. An extent that you think about nothing else but THE BLOCK. But, why do you give it so much importance? Why is it “The Block” and not “A Block”? Is it because it forces you to stay uninspired by the biggest and smallest things happening around you? Or is it because no matter how deep your feelings are, you aren’t able to find the right words even though words and rhymes and verses are your biggest strength? What is it exactly? Is it even something? Does it really make you feel like the thirsty and bruised traveller? No. I ain’t saying I don’t give importance to the series of thoughts that are going in your head, making knots in your throat and aching your heart. But, I really wish to know if it’s really THE WRITER’s BLOCK, that’s forcing you to feel so?
Maybe, it’s just a phase where your words are finding shelter beneath the hot layers of sand or are burying themselves under thousands layers of mud to experience the force that might help them convert into diamonds?
Maybe, this is just an escape which is important to make a stronger and more influential comeback.
Maybe it’s just the fall season and the tree has to simply wait peacefully for the spring to arrive. Seasons will change, spring will arrive and the tree will be embellished with beautiful and colourful leaves.
No one can stop the spring. Not getting inspired, not finding the write words, not having the right temperament to write do not define your poetry. It’s you who defines your poetry, your verses and your rhymes.
So, stop worrying about writer’s block because it’s not THE WRITER’s BLOCK but simply a block, a phase of static condition which is needed to run bigger laps and take the highest jumps.
With love, a homo with a pen sitting on the same boat with you. ____________________________________________
Pardon me if this is illogical and hurts your senses. I haven’t been through a writer’s block no matter if I post my writings or not. But I really wanted to try writing on this.
I’m back after an year almost and this place still feels like home. I’ll try to post more often:)
This pain runs through my body and ties me to the ground underneath. My veins get emptied, to an unending pit, at the center of the earth. Pale and drained... I stand, in utter shock. Lips parted, by the weight of words entangled, hanging... hooked in my gut. Enough air in my lungs. Enough to keep me afloat. But I'm drowning, under the desert in my throat. Your face... blurred in my memories. Your betrayal... still fresh, oozing from my heart... bleeding. I'm bleeding vacuum, because that's all that remains within me. I had given you all the keys. Not knowing, you... were the thief.
Sitting under the candlelight every night, Have you asked yourself, Why do you sit alone in the dark, with some spark of loss, And hanging light in yourself, Do you emerge between, Who were you yesterday and who you will be tomorrow? But, I asked myself, Why do my bones dance, Between the regrets of the past and speedy waves of tomorrow? Why do I survive in the air of a black hole and at the same time I want to color the fly, Why do, I smile with tears inside, And cry out with laugh deep inside, I again ask myself, Who am I? The ghost of myself bounded legally to fear, Or the consideration of real and not illusory vibes, In end I again smile, Screaming out loud , Who am I? The one who, I want mankind to know, Or the one who dies within me every night, Who am I?