Writer's Block

For past few weeks I’m not feeling like writing. I am also running out of ideas. Maintaining a blog isn’t easy, especially when you are too ‘talentless’ to spend 1000 words on the staying power of your new lipstick or how confident and flirty you are feeling in your new dress. Well, I’m too cynical and snobbish to do that.

I hate having writer’s block. I love to write so much, it is the only outlet that I have. I hate it when that outlet gets jammed temporarily. The words beginning to get all jumbled up inside my head. They scream and pound against the inner wall of my skull. I can hear them, ‘Come on! Let us out!’ I feel like telling them, ‘Yes yes I want to. Trust me I really want to. I’m trying. But I can’t!’ I start to feel so helpless. As if I’m suffering from a sleep paralysis. A big, dark, ugly shadow is approaching me but I cannot run away from it. I cannot move my body. I cannot even move the tip of my finger. I know I must wake up. It’s all just a nightmare. I have to wake up and free those trapped words inside my head. Or else the throbbing pain won’t stop. How am I supposed to continue living if I cannot write? Those unwritten, unsaid words will fester and the numbness will eventually spread and infect my whole body. Abominable maggots will soon be slithering about everywhere and they will slowly eat up my soul. And before I even know it, overcoming the writer’s block mission will morph into saving my soul mission.
I have always been an enigma to myself. Like a great, big puzzle that is too hard to decipher. I know we all like to think that we are so different and so unique and the world will never quite ‘get’ us. Sitting in a corner and wallowing in self pity gives such sadomasochistic pleasure. But honestly, having a part of yourself that you don’t even know of, is not nearly as appealing as it sounds. The scariest part is, with time I’m becoming less tolerant and more of a recluse. I wonder whether it is my fault or the majority of the people are just too stupid and useless to give a damn about. I have never been a good friend. I loathe small talk. And don’t even get me started on my love life. Sometimes I feel love is only great in books and movies. It feels real as long as one is dwelling in the fictional world. In reality, it does not exist. It is imaginary, like square root of negative number. But in order to solve many problems in our lives, we need to take it into account even if we have to assume beforehand that it is purely imaginary. So basically Love is a paradox. Or, to be more precise, the existence and functionality of Love is a paradoxical affair. Even if you are running away from it, you are actually running towards it.

This blog has given me a lot. I don’t have friends. I don’t remember when the last time I actually communicated with another human being was. Nor do I want to. Because I know eventually everybody will screw me over. I said human being because I chat with dogs regularly. This blog has become a self created imaginary friend for me. If I were stupid, I would have sought refuge in some god’s idol. Here I pour my heart out. I know no matter how cynical I become or how stupid my writing is, my blog will never make a minced meat pie out of my heart. And I will need fewer sedatives at night. My blog is my root over minus one. It has no function in the real world, yet it has made ‘TheProblem’ much less scary.

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