Tuesday, July 25, 2017
I ignored the muse many times this month because I could not find time for writing. It was painful. I let my pen and paper be squeezed at the bottom of my workload, and it took me some pulling out, whittling down and sickness before I got to them again. To my surprise, when I finally got hold of them, I felt like I no longer know how to write.
My writing skills seemed to have deteriorated. Every day I would be in a room full of space, and have a desk waiting. There, I would sit and write. But not write at all. Not a single word appealed to me and whenever any did, it won't be of beauty. It was a huge writer's block. In those barren days, I saw my writing skills molting before me. And it was because I neglected it, left it in a corner, and forgot about it for a long time.
Or perhaps, it wasn't really about my writing skills.
The black ink resembled my mood. Empty papers felt familiar. And the drear blinks of the cursor resounded the rhythm of my week. Man, it was me all along. I wanted words, but they weren't coming because I was pulling them out from a void or an empty cavern. I was the one deteriorating, the one molting, the one who was empty.
Why do I write again? was the question.
I turned to God for answers. Then I talked to people. Then I rested. Then read books. And read books. And read more books. Then finally, I remembered what I have forgotten.
I forgot the joy of expressing myself with art, of creating a world and bringing my readers in it, of listening to people and immortalizing their stories in paper.
I forgot love.