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
|
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.