"You're useless," these words had spilt out my mouth like water filled up in a cup carried by one in motion, unsteady. I knew what I had said was a lie, but I could not help myself from saying it, particularly when I found myself at a pause on a sentence that even my seven-year-old niece could have completed. I haven't written anything worth one's eyes to read in nearly a month. Maybe I am not the writer that my mother thought I could be. I wanted to be what she expected me to be and I still do. I still want that, which is why I had decided to stay here and why I had decided to bring nothing more but a pen and a few sheets of paper.
It's quiet here, moderately cold and not so spacious and yet it seemed to have given my mind much room to think. The lamp that I sat next to looked a bit old fashioned. It was a table lamp and it wore two colors, green and a gold-ish sort of brown. There was a statue that held the lamps neck in place of two baby twins with angel wings. I saw them. Their head rested on their chin and no smile on their face was seen. Their hair, though stiff, seemed as though it flowed like waves in water. It spooked me. But what made things worse, far worse than that lamps carving, is the lighting of the room hastily failing. The lamp revealed no hint of preventing this unfortunate occurrence from happening and I saw why. The light lacked the ability. It was unable to shine at the level I needed it to be.
The couch I sat on carried dust. It seemed nobody really visited this place, this place that held a room that I had now allowed to keep me captive. I seem to have been able to write something that did not have much worth to me. I wrote, "Hope, like dread, it often comes unannounced, and then thankfully intoxicates us and inoculates our feelings with an irrational sense of joy and optimism." I had no understanding as to why I had written this. No understanding at all. I might've been in my feelings without knowing. I tend to do that often. It's something I do, which is usual. I tend to write things and then look back on it and wonder, "Who was it who wrote this? And why?" I sometimes think myself a stranger.
I needed this privacy, this isolation and this distance from the distraction that took away my focus to complete. I was unable to get anything done with the consistency of calls from those who only bothered, complained and worried of not me but of themselves. Those who are not writers have failed to understand that writer's block is the worse disease for a writer. It was not arthritis, which didn't seem much of a worry to me since Milton had written Paradise Lost when blind of sight, or anything else, which mimicked it. Being unable to express oneself is far worse than death, far worse than life. And I've come to a point where life and death have now become a choice that I've considered hard to choose between.
The room had become much darker and the cold that I had previously felt was no longer moderate. It had now intensified itself. On my right, there was a blanket. I had assumed its age. I thought it to be ancient. I placed the blanket over my body. It covered only my legs and the mid section of my stomach. The blanket was not so long in its length, unfortunately, and so it had done me no good. No good at all.
I felt lost. I felt like everything stood in my way. The lamp, which seemed sinister in its design, the cold chill that was once moderate in its temperature and the short blanket that failed to warm me once that cold chill intensified itself. This should not have been as hard as it was. Should writing truly be so difficult and should word's honestly be so hard to furnish? I guess it could be, especially if one genuinely cares about what he or she is writing about. Maybe I did care, a little too much, about the things that I had written about. I have done all of this thinking and still I see, in front of me, sheets of paper unmarked by my pens ink.
ns 15.158.61.51da2
