Refreshed joy

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Buildings disappear
the light spreads, warm and yellow
The sky laughs with me

 

Letters

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Letters forgotten
in the dark, on an old desk
Loved words lived no more

BLOCKED

worried

I sit down to write. From the whirl of fast-moving disembodied thoughts in my mind, I pluck a topic. I start writing. No more than five sentences later, another seemingly more important topic pops up, freezing my brain and stopping my fingers. I stay still for ten minutes, mentally shifting from one topic to another, not being able to choose one.  In this stage of doubt, other thoughts seep into the crack between the two disputed topics. I am now thoroughly confused. Temporarily giving up, I get up to drink some water. I watch some YouTube videos. I cannot concentrate and neither can I be completely distracted. Inside my chaotic mind, I am writing witty sentences. I am writing a poem. I am thinking about dialogues for a character in a story I haven’t even started writing yet. I am passionate and fierce, but it is all inside my mind. If I close my eyes, I can see my hands writing down the beautiful words I am thinking of. If I open my eyes, my fingers don’t move and my mind goes back to its chaotic state. I start to become anxious. I jot down a few unrelated sentences, and then pull these apart to dump the same words somewhere else. I write a dark and boring poem about some traumatic event. I draw a few doodles next to this poem. I close my eyes. I fidget, I crack my knuckles, I chew my tongue. In the end, out of sheer frustration, I publish the boring poem on my blog. I swallow back my disappointment. Am I a good writer only inside my head? When I open my eyes, the weight of reality pushes the words back inside my head. When I close my eyes, my mind is free to ignore the difficulties of emotions and reality. But no matter what, I will keep writing. I will try, day after day, to get past the invisible barriers that block my words and hold my fingers. I will try to bring out the good writer in me. But for now, I will stick to the good old excuse of ‘writer’s block’.

Nostalgia

2a04f6bb4da2d85c29942f13196a5372.jpgThe windy days

the pouring rain

the trees that gazed

the sense of pain

It all comes back to me.

The bumpy roads

the muddy dogs

the life-sized boards

the rotting logs

It all comes back to me.

The shimmer of gold

the smell of damp soil

the crooked backs of the old

their reasons to toil

It all comes back to me.