I havent had written actively since last two years but i knew if i wanted to i can. But i didnt feel the urge to grab a paper and jot down my vague thoughts. But now. I want to write. I have to. I want to spit out what keeps me awake at such odd hours, i want to unburden my heart. I want to let it all out. But cannot. Even if im so desperate.
You know how it feels to finally accept the fact that one thing you were slightly good at, which was your only refuge. Your tiny little haven. Where you can be everything. Anything. Where your imaginations would wander miles and miles away from the life you are bound to live. Where life wasnt perfect but it offered you solace. Where things were ordinary but valuable. A world you reigned. A world just as you wanted. Nothing grandeur. Just an abode of peace.
You know how it feels to know that youre no longer welcome there. That place, your place, is no longer yours. Because life happened. And it happened so terribly that it not only asked for down payments but bereft you of everything you needed to survive. Not only youre left to deal with your tragedy alone, you also have to mourn over the silent and sudden demise of your art.
What happens when you lose your art? All i know is you lose yourself too in your loss. Where would you then channel your grief to? How would you let it out? How would you expect your heart to bear it all without exploding?
What utter tragedy to lose. Something as precious as your art. How unjust of life to still have the nerve to come up to you, demanding you to act normal? To force you to move on with the fact that you cant really have your art back.
How can i now complete my poems when all my words are so petrified. When the paper i choose to write stares back at me and laughs at my numbness. When i hold my pen it dries out before my heart does.
Losing interest in things once were part of you can be so hauntingly painful that even though you feel so incomplete without them, even though you know you cant make it through without them, even though the heart no longer is wounded but in absolute ruins, you still move on because life happens and it happens so terribly. Not sometimes. But all the damn times. Because it doesnt know the art of winning fair and square.
#thoughts #thoughtpiece #writing #prose