I have been trying to write a book, trying to compress most of the experiences of my life, honestly into it but each time I go back to those pages, some kind of darkness descends on me.
I get wedged in those dark corridors. I feel stifled.
My thoughts veer into those unknown crevices where I have buried many setbacks, a thousand emotions and disappointments, which have been struggling to wriggle out.
I have endeavored to approach it from a different angle, interspersing it with fictional characters and situations to camouflage the darker moments but each time I have returned disillusioned.
My progress has been dismally slow; I lose the inspiration just after writing a few words. Meanwhile I have completed two books. My poetry flows most naturally and this has been a good reminder that I lack the will to come out of those long, narrow alleys, face sunshine and move forward.
But sunshine has been my lifeline, my motivation, and my most trusted friend who has always provided me the impetus to welcome positive thoughts.
I have been pondering who is the real culprit and why this unknown entity lurks around me…
There is one main character with ghost like eyes, prying at me all the time, holding my hands, scaring the life out of my fingers, paralyzing them, shooting at my thoughts, stealing all the ideas, showing daggers and making me quit.
Each time its approach is different. Sometimes it visits me right in the morning, even before I open my journal, exerting a strange power over my actions, distracting me into some meaningless activities.
The vice like grip of this monster holds all the words that seem to drift away, leaving me powerless.
There is always a villain, I reassure myself. I have the liberty to portray this villain in the darkest shades.
Whenever I move ahead with this argument in my mind, I can race through some more pages, which reveal many more fiends, glowering at me through the words.
I refuse to give up. Nothing can bog me down. I continue to write. A day will come when all these devilish characters would stand exposed.
They will lose their hold on me one day.
Do I regret having buried them? Probably that was the only solution at that time.
Probably I didn’t have the maturity to handle their power at that juncture.
Now I can’t let them keep visiting me. Now I need to extort them out of my life. Words are more powerful than the sharpest weapons.
So I have been using just words.
“If I waited till I felt like writing, I’d never write at all.” – Anne Tyler
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