Writers block is at its peak now, I am writing but nothing seems good, nothing is satisfying me. There are so many unfinished pieces that I am loosing patience. Anyway, I was told by someone to write about ‘not being able to write’ so here is an attempt.
As always your comments are more than welcome.
Why wasn’t it flowing?
Like that enthralling river
Running down the mountain, dodging the rocks,
Like that one drop of tear which was stuck in the eye for so long
That even after it dropped, the pain it melted seemed less torturous,
Like the period blood which
oozed out and endorsed my virginity,
Like the sweat which swirled down the neck emancipating the exhaustion from the body.
Why was my ink so stubborn to release itself?
I changed a hundred pens but the blue ink remained rigid,
Strong in its position, not even willing to move a centilitre.
“Hey! Why don’t you liberate yourself?” I asked the ink.
“Why don’t you let yourself out?” She shot back.
Stunned by her answer, silence enclosed me for a moment.
“I chose my words to do that.” I said embarrassingly.
“Oh really? But your words are hollow, they lack profoundness.” She replied.
Who would know my words better than her;
Understand the depth of them more than her?
Perhaps, she was telling the truth.
The blue liquid shattered me,
But along with me,
She spilled herself out on my hands.