Every well-stocked home ought to have a flash-light, candles and some playing cards (okay I lie; in this day and age it’d be more like smartphones) in case of a black-out. In the same vein, every literary mind ought to have light, warmth and play to fight periods of darkness, chaos and non-creativity.
That’s been my state-of-mind recently. I speak with no less fluency and clarity than before, but there’s a guerre mondiale brewing in this head of mine. Thoughts fly as hypothetical scenarios jostle each other for prime spots of the fragile cellular battlefield. Every wounded musing is a probable cause for cringes and mind-aches (yes, you read this right).
Alas, such is the decade of the twenty-something. I attribute my recent mental block to a growing
platter buffet of events that have given me cause for reflection. Not that it’s a dark patch; it’s purely a call to slow, calm and focus my keen thoughts and senses inward. As for my insatiable urge to write in this season of blurbs and in-completion and pauses, I consider this every writer’s curse; we simply must write and pen and compose. And until I find the next clearing of zen, it’s one foot in front of the other, one word at a time.