(I’m in a phase of crippling writer’s block – hence the absence of writing – and it has been a while. I have accepted that I don’t know if it will ever go away. On this blog, I hardly ever post anything that I don’t like, but I’m going to let go of that rule now because I can’t write but having words trapped inside me makes me feel like a part of me is dying. I’m going to put all of these sub-standard stream-of-consciousness pieces in a different category, so if you’re looking to read something halfway decent, scroll past any post that is in the ‘stream of consciousness’ category and maybe you’ll find something that’s not total horseshit.)
Because every word that I try to push out from these fingers seems to want to stay curled up inside my body (help!), as if scared of the world outside – perhaps taking their cue from my fear of it. Because abortions are for unwanted babies and not unwanted words.
Because every colour seems doused in the same shade of green – pulsing, thriving, living green; refusing-to-die green; a green that may fall to the bottom as unwanted algae on grimy drainwater no one remembers from last monsoon but still breathing-and-existing green – perhaps taking its cue from the tenacity with which I hold onto (dear, yes) life, refusing to give up.
Because every silence is a blur, like the difference between mediums and senses seems to have melted like sepia-tinted memories with the long-gone summer that I crave on these cold winter nights, when a cup of coffee is not a good enough substitute for being able to sit without a pressure on my spine in clothes that do not seek to suffocate me and make me disappear in them.
Because every unwritten poem that has died inside me in the past year because I could not muster the words flows away like the warmth after a hot shower; the water boiling, just so, hot enough to scald my skin and make me feel inspired for a few minutes but just as piercing for its absence after it’s gone.
Because nothing apart from broken phrases from scattered people and haphazard pictures of the day and the day before and the day before that (a red kite) make sense because I have forgotten how to hold a pen in my hand to write anything other than a number that isn’t a citation for stacks of documents that talk about how someone was wronged one morning eight years ago and the (wo)men in black and white still talk about it on their pedestals one morning every few weeks.