Block block go away, don’t you dare come another day.

I have not written in about 6 months. I got stuck with a story around that time. I landed myself in a total crisis around that time. I have been in an uncertain, moody and distraught place ever since.

I sat like a rock and stared at empty pages, feeling red hot bubbles rise from my pit and burst in my brain. I have inked my fingertips and, you can say, just inked the paper as well. Reading those erractic words felt like watching the cool summer breeze sway trees and creepers from behind closed windows.

I lifted the pen when I knew it would be too heavy to move across the paper. I have torn papers. I have listened to crickets, skipped, stood on one leg. All hoping to inspire a few words. But in the end, I always sat drumming my fingers, sometimes in a rhythm, sometimes in pain.
The angles changed. The commas became fullstops. The sentences were moved up or down. Eventhough the mirror was whole again, no amount of tape or glue and no matter how I arranged the shards, the cracks remained.

Today, however, seems like a different day, I tell myself. Is it everyday that you come across someone bitten by the same bee on the same place?

Inspite of all the remedies, I knew you sighed. I sighed with you.
“Have you never had a writer’s block?”, I asked those kind people with the meanest scowl.
Soon hatred sucked me, people, good memories, luck, decisions, logic and then my art in its vicious vaccum.. It was, probably, a reward for a past good deed that my hatred soon found its next victim- the writer’s block itself.
Can you hate something with a burning passion?
Hell yeah.

I grabbed my diary to lash out on the unjust and cruel writer’s block, but then a dam cracked somewhere and what gushed forth was this.

I know I should have remembered what triggered what or what transformed what into words.
Hatred reignited the passion, you wonder?
I wonder too. I really can’t be sure.
The future me with that inevitable writer’s block will curse me for this. I am sorry, is all I can say to her. She will suffer for 6 months or less or more, I really can’t be sure.
I don’t how I got here. I don’t know if tomorrow I will be back in that moody, uncertain, distraught place.
All I know is that these are the  most passionate words I have written in 6 months. These are the words that fiĺled me with excitement. These imperfect words, I am proud to present to you.

Author’s note:

Yes, it really has been 6 months.

On an excellent facebook writers group( For Writers, By Authors) someone posted, very recently, about suffering from a writer’s block and a lot of fellow authors and writers came to his help. This incident acted as a catalyst for me.

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