There are times when we are able to perform well even in the most treacherous conditions, write the most beautiful tales with pencils that are almost at the end of their lives, pens that barely have any drop of ink left, and some progress to the level of dedication that they write with just a small lead piece left of the pencil. We write on papers, on tables, on anything we can find as we feel a rush of ideas streaming outwards, begging to be let out, screaming in the cages of our minds, scratching till their nails break and bleed. All of this just so they are expressed, just once, just so they could find the touch of the world outside, feel the touch of paper and find their way into the minds and hearts of other people ensnaring them, enchanting them into illusions of mystery, beauty and all of the genres of literature that we find.

But then comes a time where we would be sitting in the comfort of our houses, or in the warmth of our rooms, or maybe in the company of gentle breeze on the terrace, or maybe even in the presence of most scenic natural marvels that radiate the kind of inspiration that is seldom found. We find ourselves in the comfort of inspiring ideas and things to write about and to fill the pages of our book or the word file on our computer. But even with pens filled with ink to the brim and bottles of inspiration loaded into our hearts when we make an attempt to put these ideas to paper and attempt to form words, we find ourselves filled with void, the screams of ideas in our mind have been replaced by a deafening silence and all of the cages that held our words now hold only marks left by the former prisoners who seemed to have all escaped, deserting us. All of these inspiring ideas, all of these marvels to write about but our words seem to have just been lost into some fathomless pit, into which we dive to hold them and rise up again to fill in the pages with all of the beauty, pain, pleasure everything, everything that we feel and are in desperation to write about, but we fail to. The deeper we dive, the more grip we lose on our reality, as we retaliate in manners that we never thought we would each time someone mentions  “you haven’t written in a while”, we see our fears personified and struggle to refrain. Even though the intention of someone saying this might not have been to bring our fears out for us to face. We avoid and try to escape the questions, we try to escape our own self, and yet in all of these things, we still try to find our words, in all of our denials we ache for the presence of our words.

Then arrives the solace, the breath of air that we sought, our words have come into our grip again, they flow through our veins. We feel the rush of adrenalin as we scramble to find pages, books, word files to scribble. We let ourselves immerse in this train of thoughts that we are finally able to capture in words, these words give the feeling of finally finding an oasis in the endless desert. We finally feel bits of satisfaction building up, a satisfaction of being able to finally express again, it gives a feeling of having ripped off the cover on our mouths that stopped us. Feeling of exhaustion does take over after we complete this treacherous journey to breach this barrier of writer’s block.

After a while, our moments in the comfort of the oasis comes to end and we are most certainly scared, the thought of leaving the comfort of this oasis to travel through the burning desert sends chills down the spines and this changes us. We start restricting ourselves in expression and the pace at which we let ourselves flow through words.  Each time we let the words flow out of us and pour into poems, proses, articles, books, and much more, we tend to grip them, we are scarred and scared. But again holding onto these words is like hoping to hold sand in our bare hands, the tighter we grip the more it slips away. Eventually, each of us arrives at the realisation that this journey, this journey through this desert that graces us sometimes with rare touches of oasis is going to be our life.

After a while, we find ourselves back in the fathomless pit falling into nothingness. We might make it out again but this vicious cycle would still continue or maybe we will be lucky, maybe we will find a way out of this cycle or maybe we won’t. We can imagine and create the future we wish for and sometimes maybe even live to see it but till then I hope your words stay by you and if they have left, hope they find you soon.

 

Author’s Profile: He is a second-year B.tech Student at KIIT, he enjoys writing both prose and poetry, he is also the editor of his college blog. He enjoys playing the guitar and signing at his leisure along with reading books of horror fiction and at other times works of Oscar Wilde.