[... though the previous writing, ... a writer's pain, was not numbered part I...]
A writer knows the pain of being a writer. His vacant mind tells the story of occasional falls and lapses of his working mind. The time I am passing through is just filled with such ochre silence. Too much to say - very little to come. I am ruefully tolerating this arid time that tides over the solar days with the lunar nights with an unseen cord of despondency. My fingers are trembling even when words come not to bless my page. I throw ramblings over my phone until it goes dry of balance. I find no sideways drift. I asked my facebook friends for a healing touch; they did suggest a couple of capes... a couple of good hopes; yet a modicum of pain has been released. I know, I do know, only the labour pain can beget a child. The pain must be supreme to help me branch out a green leaf of writing.
A writer knows the pain of being a writer. His vacant mind tells the story of occasional falls and lapses of his working mind. The time I am passing through is just filled with such ochre silence. Too much to say - very little to come. I am ruefully tolerating this arid time that tides over the solar days with the lunar nights with an unseen cord of despondency. My fingers are trembling even when words come not to bless my page. I throw ramblings over my phone until it goes dry of balance. I find no sideways drift. I asked my facebook friends for a healing touch; they did suggest a couple of capes... a couple of good hopes; yet a modicum of pain has been released. I know, I do know, only the labour pain can beget a child. The pain must be supreme to help me branch out a green leaf of writing.
Let me be in search of my soul... in quest of a tranquil oasis amidst the sand-blown desert.
It's 10:26 PM. Another night is almost slipping away from my fist. Crowds of street laughter and roars of drunken partisans have left me quite dumbstruck. I am typing letters after letters flawlessly. Soon mother will give out a strong yell for coming downstairs. Leaving my melancholy on my chair, I am pulled from within to go downstairs at once, as gyrating ceiling fans and milking tube lights fail to urge me to write something.
[Mother's knocking on my lobe...]
I have lost my appetite. I have lost my thirst. I am gasping instead of breathing. I am, perhaps, tired – tired, perhaps, I am.
[It's 7:50 AM...]
I am still begging for words... I am begging for words still...
5 comments:
right. a writer only knows the pain of being a writer.
what we search for is word and that only we can represent in front of others
Your words make me feel the pain of being a writer and realise the void of words i have now which is oh so hurting me!
nicely written up.
Defiant Princess
http://khanvibes.blogspot.com
The phase of 'creative procrastination' is indeed depressing. Yet every writer goes through such painful times. It may happen due to excessive stress in everyday life or maybe some other reasons. But many experienced writers say, this 'non-writing' period is transient and the process of creativity continues unrecognizably even in this phase. Perhaps this is the time for rejuvenation to restore into a more productive phase. So don't get too upset. Keep on writing even if you are not much satisfied, the resty muse will rise soon, long before June.
the writers block...and yet you were able to put a lot of words into just writing about it...:)
no words can ever satisfy any writer...
A nice blog that you have here. I would like to have your contact-email id if pssible. am presently conducting a study on blogs, and I believe you might be able to help me. I have to chose a few bloggers only for my study. Hope will get a positive answer.
Cheers :)
the writer's block..but u instilled the agony of this phase in a poetically lucid style.
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