Not Writing Today

An ache persists in my system, like a pull, the talab to write, a pang of a pointed need to express – a small, little whirlwind originating in the pit of my stomach, the epicenter of my being. Is writing an addiction? The letting out of steam to propel oneself forward...

I like the pinprick-like pangs and the tugging pulls; they make me feel aroused, wild. Aware of the throbbing need, I feel I live, I exist. It induces a controlled high, makes me feel good but not lose control; happy but not nauseatingly euphoric. But what if the small, little whirlwind of a beginning thrusts itself into a tornado of toppled emotions – the addiction takes hold, strongly and firmly – wrenching me dry of thoughts and feelings; making me vomit out all memories and kicking in a dehydrated state bereft of any ideas and a barren-ness of the mind. Is survival even a possibility from this bleak, fatal scenario?

The lone body of water in the middle of a parching desert, a miraculous drug dose, or maybe just a thought…. the light at the end of a cigarette stub when sucked on, lights itself up. The thought might take seed and grow. A thought born from the very recesses of the mind-plasma, a thought germinated not from within, but from the outside – taking cue from the love, hope and life that has miraculously seeped in from the beyond – an idea we call fiction. Parched of all musings personal, fiction might just be born.

But then maybe, just maybe, if I ignore the dull ache and the distant craving, the pain might just go away. The parched throat will moisten itself, the feverish burn in the eyes might be blinked away and then, the heartbeat will normalize. The sea will be calm again, waveless and quiet, without a trace of the tempest that could have been….