Where is the writer?

It’s time I admitted the truth…looked myself in the eye…stopped denying what I’ve known for quite a few months now.

Writing has left me.

There! I said it! Although I should have confessed this long ago. There are no words left in

me anymore. No ideas that form sentences…that become paragraphs…and pages. Every time I write down a few lines, I look at them sceptically. They feel contrived. Pretentious. Meaningless. And most importantly, they don’t seem like they came out of me.

                          PC: pixabay.com

It’s hard to believe that what made me “me” is not mine anymore. And looking back at what I have written – professionally and personally, it all feels distant.

It breaks my heart. I thought I was a good writer. I won’t exaggerate. Just ‘good’. Now I don’t feel like an ‘average’ even. There are thoughts in my head that seem great while they sit there preening. But the minute they flow out of my fingers, they appear forced. Humour sounds unfunny. Anger looks futile. Tears seem fake. There is no emotion. No love in those words. They are just empty letters, shaping empty sentiments.

Where is that writer in me? The one whose fingers flew over the keypad; or whose handwriting was just mad scribbling because the ideas couldn’t wait for the words to form on a page?

My identity is slowly slipping away. There is nothing else I know to do. Nothing else I can do. And with this one skill gone, I am a hollow entity. Will the words come back to me? Will they fill my soul again? Will my fingers race over the keyboard once more? I am afraid to answer these questions. Very afraid.