I have become one of those people, who fret about not writing, and then proceed to write about the same. Confronted with the silence in my head, I find that there are no words left for me to spill, no knots to loosen; just an emptiness. It is possible I had grown comfortable with thinking of myself as someone who writes, in spite of my initial resistance. I reasoned that everything I did, or tried to do, contributed to this pursuit. It couldn’t be measured, but in documenting, I lived moments, once, twice; I remained both witness and participant. Maybe it is time for the noise to die, even if that means I will have nothing to show.
I know what it is like, to be carried away by the imaginations of writers, to want to consume everything they say, hoping to uncover details about their lives, to detect their presence in my expressions, the heady realisation that I could hold phrases in my hands, and twist them, extract from them something unexpected. In how many ways can I tell you this? These very imaginations tire me now. Instead, I want to know what people are hiding from, what lies they tell themselves, if they are content to wallow in beauty while ignoring messy realities. It is laughable though, because once, I too read for reading, like a sponge, uncomplaining and absorbent. I was content to be the provider of meanings for uncommon words, a writer of letters, an editor of others’ emails.
Stripped of words, I am simply a person who spends too much time staring.