SCARRED by the writer’s block

I lost interest in the fairy tale that I created. Even in my own depth, in my true emotions and twisted sanity, I could not sit to scribble or pierce the liver. I lost my soul purpose to connect. My pen sobbed and her tears symbolided my relief, my hope and salvation. But four months later, I was still sitting in my dark corner thinking…’WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!’

Many call it a ‘Writer’s Block.’ But I beg to differ. I give it a subtle, yet crafty name like ‘Security.’ It conceals. It says, ‘don’t feel, don’t let them see the parts of you that are not as pretty, the raw unfiltered thoughts that reek from within you.’

The older I got, the less rational I become. From the unbearable academic status quo to a basic financial lifestyle. From infinite emotional quakes back to spiritual lifelessness or lack there-of. My social life was not the same. Some friends were lost and others are now strangers with the memories we once shared quickly fading in the horizon. With each passing day, I felt like I was wearing someone else’s skin with a distortion of my own character. I thus, found solace in the taste of whisky on my lips, the rush of racing hearts and fast pacing feet, an unhealthy, yet refined distraction.

Many do not understand that as a writer, there are days when the words you so love fail you. The tales you enjoy scrawling flee from you and your thoughts cannot commit to paper. Some days, no matter how plush your creative juices are, you are so bent on completing assignments and studying that your thoughts become an emotional turmoil.

In other instances, you may want to write to heal, yet, through your writing, someone may read and bleed. So you prefer to be fluent in your silence, lest you break a heart. More often, you meet people whose narratives you want to recite, but just before their story is told, they fall out of character. And just like that, you are back to the drawing board. Do you then continue to dream or announce the death of hope?

But amidst that anger and frustration, someone reaches out to commend your articulate orthography. This single being reminds you of who you are. They remind you that you aren’t broken, just bent. That to be vulnerable is to be brave and to be scarred is to be human.

Most revealing is that sometimes, when things fall apart, they are in fact falling into place. And as a writer, I wish to never disappoint.