I didn’t know what to drape in exquisite jewels of words and consequently, my canvases remained hollow ornaments with no meaning enfolded in their arms. Soon, I developed an aversion towards what used to be once a most sacred practice for me.

Indeed, in the gone days, this form of art had been most scintillating to my spirit because I saw it as an enchanting means to express myself. But now, the rhythm of my heart had ceased to call from within my words and the practice had become a dreary obligation. Once a woodland with the arcane call of beings and the whisper of dew-coated blossoms where secrets were found, now became a fallow land where lingered naught but the parched memory of life, long evaporated.

‘I am a writer, I have to write because I like it,’ I would whisper to myself in unsympathetic tones. Then I began, without my knowing, to seek an escape. What was once freedom was now my fetters.

The world, in long gone days bore the invisible fragrance of words and poetry and stories infused into the smell of Earth. But now, all around me, wherever I fled, the ghost of guilty words unwritten chased me – just ghosts, for they had no soul to them.

‘My anchor!’ I would gasp, watching it sink into the sea of darkness amidst which I floundered, and each time I desperately forced in my breathe to grope the dark depths for that which has slipped away. I could have sailed away to find the golden blaze of sun elsewhere, yet I was fixated on the idea of writing being my anchor -my definition- that, in an attempt to find myself, I got lost.

Passion became an obligation and the pursuer began to flee. At last, suffocation crept in and the beautiful tessellation of artistic aspirations, carefully tendered all these years shattered.

‘I am not a writer anymore. I quit,’ I decided… 


To be continued…


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