Do you know any writers or poets who actually like the writing block? Those are what most of us may dread and never wish upon ourselves. It has just dawned upon me that I have just about started coming out of a self-imposed writing block. As someone who has in the past used writing as a tool for its therapeutic effect on me, why would I suddenly shut down and not take to it during some of the most challenging phases of my life?
The answer was simple but hard to come to terms with. I wasn’t ready for what would come out of my voice. It would expose me to myself and I really did not want to even know of it’s existence, let alone comprehend it.
And so, I held myself back. Often gulped it down my throat until it left no traces that could give anything away. I shut the door tight and threw the key away in the dark. Making it impossible for me to ever find the way to it, if I had a change in mind.
I left nothing to chance. Every word that surfaced in my thoughts were sliced down at their infancy. Soon word spread. Their visits reduced day by day until they stopped altogether. The walls I built between me and my voice stood strong.
The storms came. Completely shook me down and once the walls broke, an avalanche of my voices came crashing down. That is how they escaped. An accident that I would later come to realise served a much needed purpose.
And so I am back here. Trying hard not to deny being in denial for so long. I start with those that seemed within my reach.
I still have a long way to go. Some sleepless nights under the stars. Some summers that scald you. Some winters that slow you down.
But I will arrive.