It’s been long since I’ve written anything significant. The truth is, I am afraid. Afraid of not living up to what I wish for myself. It sounds silly, I know, but there is a reason. I cannot begin to describe how much I value writing, as a mode of expression and as a creative outlet. I’ve always been in awe of how we can take random words and string it together to create something so meaningful that it can move hearts and etch itself in ones memory. The right words together can make magic. It can spark love and break hearts too. Just play around with words, and you can elicit any emotion you want in the reader and in yourself too.
This realization of the power of words is precisely what keeps me from writing. Frankly, I am terrified. Of words. And yet,I constantly feel this intense need to write something, Anything. But I’m always waiting for that perfect beginning, for that spectacular end. It’s like, I can’t start without knowing for sure where I am going. But that’s not how writing has worked for me so far. Writing has always been an organic process for me. Before this, I never consciously thought about writing. I just grabbed on these ‘sparks’ blindly and then didn't let go till I managed to get something out of it. Lately, I've been missing these sparks. either because I was too late to capture them, or because once I got them, I didn't hold on tight enough…Or maybe I don’t see them at all.
This inability to write has made me generally unhappy. I've had words reach till my finger tips and then trace their way back without any explanation as to why. It’s frustrating and exhausting. At times I sit with a pen between my fingers, or the laptop in front of me, coaxing the words- the right words- to reveal themselves to me. They make brief appearances and then, just like that, they disappear. Leaving me hanging, lost for words.
Maybe I’ve waited long enough for them to approach me. Maybe it’s time I go looking for them- in conversations with friends, chance encounters with strangers on the subway, between thoughts over a solitary cup of coffee, under strange skies where everything is capable of being that spark. I am sure I’ll catch up with them. Soon enough.