confessions of a...

I stared into nothingness. Sure, I was looking at something very much alive and real; but I wasn’t focusing on anything. I was thinking of something and sense had taken a backseat. It was as if I had lost control; I couldn’t willingly move my eyes. Then again, I wasn’t trying to do that. I was trying to think. Something had to give. There had to be a way out.

 

Ok. Focus. Now I had to seriously sit down and think. I had to get back on my feet. Literally. I had to somehow find my way back up that ladder. My life was going perfect, why did it have to change? And it didn’t only change; it took a turn for the worse. One day I am this amazingly care-free, slightly (ok very) spoilt young author. Today I was an unwashed woman who was slowly but surely growing fat; while she worked herself out of this mess, desperately trying to hold on to the remaining shreds of her dignity and failing miserably.

 

The words which flowed as soon as my pen touched paper; eluded me today. They no longer came to me, in my dreams. No longer did a thought strike me suddenly and send me into a written frenzy. I had tried everything. Stimulating scented candles, yoga, a shrink. I have now sat right here for days staring at a blank sheet of paper. My waste-bin overflows with crumpled up pieces of paper. Nothing sounds right anymore; everything I write looks forced, made-up; even worse, copied. The shocking originality which was my trademark is now forever lost.

 

All I ever wanted was to write; ever since I was a child. I always wrote what came to me; bits and pieces, behind notebooks; in class, whenever. I had never tried to sound different, or serious; like I was this amazingly gifted writer or something. I had written whatever had come to me even if, in hindsight, it sounded extremely stupid. I just wanted to go back to that. Every teenager had to date read at least one of my books. I wrote what I felt and surprisingly they all felt the same way. They called me their voice. It was a heady feeling; getting all that attention. I had strayed sometimes, I won’t deny that but I had always stayed true to my art. I had partied till three in the morning, woken up with killer hangovers. But when I sat down to write, I was completely sober, focused. Writing gave me such an adrenalin rush which even nymphomaniacs wouldn’t have gotten from sex. It was like a drug to me; whenever I wasn’t doing it, I was itching to go back to it.

 

Where had all of that gone? Had I actually lost all of that? Was it possible that all my creativity was gone? I had always imagined it to be as integral a part of me as breathing. Was it really possible that I was no longer the same?

 

 

I realized with a start that I had in fact written over ten lines without crumpling up and throwing away this paper. It wasn’t much but it was something. I touched my pen to paper and words flowed! They were not smart words or funny words but they were still words! Could it be that I was changing? I wasn’t losing my creativity; I was giving it away and receiving it back in another form, a different, mature form. I was starting to come out of it albeit a little different. I was still me, just a little different, a little mature and (hopefully) a little smarter. As ever I wasn’t looking to go back with a bang, maybe just slip through quietly through and let everyone know I’m back. And then- a HUGE bang! Maybe I was more mature, but I was still the same spoilt brat.