Clockwork

Alarm. Snooze. Alarm. Angry shouts. Alarm. Snooze. Brush. Rush. Coffee. Work. Coffee. Play. Coffee. Angry Shouts. Work. Cycle. Coffee. Cycle. Set alarm.

Day after night, week after month, I sat (sometimes laid down and looked at the ceiling) and wondered, wondered about how easy it was to forget, how easy it is to preach, how easy it is to dream; how difficult it is to let go, how difficult it is to heal, and sometimes how difficult it is to even breathe. But we breathe none the less, we find ways to let go, to heal. We are all troubled people. Some have a way to own their troubles and find a way make them go away, while some others dwell in them and let themselves drown it that misery. As hard it may be to accept, I belong to the later. But then again, I heal nonetheless.

Writing; it is the healer, like a solace to the soul full of troubles, music to the mind, and comfort to the body. Call it passion, call it madness, call it stupid; but the fact remains. But lately, I haven’t written. I haven’t written in a long time. I haven’t written like the way I used to. And that bothered me because I wasn’t healing, like I used to, like I am supposed to. Like clockwork, I worked all the way to this coffee shop and settle at this seat beside the plug point, open my laptop with one and only intention – To Write. And all this while, coffee after coffee, and an occasional free coffee and what not. I had spent more on coffee than on hosting this very blog.

The question is why? Why I am not being able to write like I used to? What is so different now that my mind is always completely blank all the time, while once upon a time, I wrote at lengths and lengths – Nonsense none the less, I still wrote. But now it all seems so distant, that feeling, that zeal to write, that enthusiasm that I had. Don’t get me wrong, I still want to write, I crave to write actually and yet I can’t even put one word down. I thought may be it is the stuff that is happening with me. The stuff that in some way is weighing me down and restricting the words that would otherwise flow like a dream. But it is just empty. The thoughts are empty, the ideas, on the other hand, are not. But what good is an idea if I can’t shape that idea into something meaningful to serve a purpose.

May be I thought, it might have something to do with the white walls of my room and that a change might be a good idea because a fresh air is what we sometimes need to clear our head. Instead of taking a walk down the park, I went on a shopping spree on Amazon sitting in my room surrounded by the same white walls. I even forgot the fact that I didn’t have money to pay the last two month’s minimum due amount and here I was buying stuff that I couldn’t possibly afford. It was my fresh air. But then again, a moment after a satisfactory mind cleanse that this fresh air did, it hit me like a truck. It was the message on the phone that is still running on its thousandth EMI, which showed a message from the credit card company and the figure it showed just blew my mind away. Even my friends abroad won’t make that much money as much as I am supposed to pay to this card company. On second that, I just realized that I made that stuff up. I don’t really have friends abroad.

So like clockwork, I worked all the way up to this coffee shop and settle down with a mugful of coffee, while music played loudly in the space with one and only intention – write. And all this while, coffee after coffee, and an occasional free coffee and what not, the cursor still blinked at the beginning of the page. May be it wasn’t a good day to write, may be my mind is a little preoccupied, or may be I am getting distracted by the people sitting next to each other and talking as is they are on opposite poles of the earth.

Or may be…. may be I couldn’t just write anymore.

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