Writers Block...

Sometimes enough is really enough. And then it too lies in want for some more.

And this is my story, a story that involves a dozen stories, all incomplete, all with hundreds of loose ends. Imagine a tapestry of unwoven yarns, each threadbare with all the fibers coming undone, and a weaver who so wants to finish the flying carpet but just does not know what thread to pick up first. And now come back to me.

I am not a writer, for the sole reason that I don't write. Putting up my hands on a keyboard in a rare hour, once in a while and thinking so much of what to write, does not entail a writer. It is someone who wants to be one, but is fraught with the frustrations of being not. With this verb of existence, this state of essential nature, this heaviness of being becomes the sole reason to live. Not to be, but to be involved in the process of be-ing. Of attaining the state that one wants, and thus becoming someone that one had to become. Most of the time with a realization that this is not what they had imagined it to be.

So many stories I have had to say, so many tales to tell. But I narrate them to an audience inside my mind and then conveniently forget about it. While everyday I scan through a dozen blogs to see what new has come up, and examine them with a critical eye; my browser has forgotten the URL of my own blogs. Sometimes I myself have to double check.

And I will be honest, this makes me sad. Not about not-writing, but wanting to write and then failing myself. It is the agony of a lover who has to see his beloved everyday as a wife of another man. It is the pain of made-up smiles and the ache of empty arms that yearn to hold. It is the storm in the vacuum that I carry within.

While every breath leaves me wanting for more, and every word I say is another empty story in itself; tell me, do you listen to me tonight?