I am unable to write. I don’t know why that is. Why am I not able to write? Have I lost my skill with words? I suppose not. Have I done some type of unfathomable injustice to my passion? Well, maybe. I don’t know why this is happening to me. The refuge I had always sought for has abandoned me. For how long a time it’ll refuse me, I do not know. Oh God, do I know anything? I guess not.
I want to write. I want to write a lot. Day and night I think of writing. Day and night I think of things I could write. But why is it so that the pen I hold defies my wishes? Yes I wish to write. I so wish to write. I wish I could write. But perhaps my wishes have wronged me.
My head is full of ideas. Half baked ideas, ideas I adore, ideas that fascinate me, ideas that scare me to death and ideas that burn in me as if eating me from inside — wanting to be on paper as soon as possible. I like this mild burning, really. It occupies me all the time. It doesn’t ache. It just hums inside me like a long forgotten song. It just makes its presence known every now and then. It reminds me that there is a Greater Good for me too. A Greater Good I really want to achieve.
My fingers are getting numb. And so my mind already has. Its thirst still remains unquenched. This feeling is uncalled for. I want to think. I want to think all the time. Thinking gives me ideas. I need ideas. I live on ideas. I wish I could spend all my time thinking.
So many wishes I have, yet few have been fulfilled. I wonder if the others will ever be. My wishes have wronged me, after all.