Blinked my eyes and over 300 days were gone; just like that, 1 year had passed me by.
Yesterday, my fingers danced again on the keyboard till 2 am. Clack, clack, clack- it happily went in the deep shadows and words filled the screen until it all seemed to flow out of it. But then they were gone, drowned and forgotten in an endless sea of white. Boy, do I hate that color! So flawlessly empty and bright and loud... Makes you want to dig your teeth into them and chew until red stains the surface.
It's not like I quit it altogether. The cold gusts changed into dry puffs of hot breeze before again growing into the chilly whispers of the night. I've pulled open one door after the other, a hesitant step forward and five rushed ones in the opposite direction. Dark alleys filled with squeals and an empty leather booth at the corner of a well-lit café store, I've been to all the places that my town would let me wander to. But somehow, the blinding light always manages to wash it all into oblivion.
I remember the 1st story I ever wrote. Gosh, it was awful! I still get shivers down my spine just thinking about it. The lack of a substantial plot and those cringy scenes that I still refuse to publicly claim. It was fun! Then came the other story, and the other one, and another, and more scribbles in a thick bullet-journal or at the back of a used copybook. I look back on those times with fondness. As if bitterly remembering the grains of sand that had been in my palms before the crashing waves.
I want to write. Desperately so. I want to see the words stick to the screen and weave into one another. I want to read them to myself and not worry about never seeing them again. But I guess the lost time is reason enough to face reality; I've had writer's block for a year now. The more I try to fight it, the more I find myself choking on the words. My words. My beloved words that have turned into shards of glass...
So happy anniversary to me, a failed writer!
EXOL_Writer
