Why haven’t I written in you for so long? Is it that I have lost the will to write? Am I so used to typing my messages in 140-characters and curtailed status updates that I no longer require the vast white abyss of Microsoft Word to coagulate all my thoughts?
It’s not just this blog that I have neglected—I have “forgotten” to respond to emails, cards and letters for months. I, who used to keep three journals in my possession at any given time (regular, funny thoughts, book notes), can now barely muster a single blog entry a month.
Well, it’s not Writer’s Block. WB implies that you have tried to start writing, but something blocks that ability. My friends, I have had yet to even attempt a single piece of prose (except for the one you are currently reading).
The truth: It is that I have nothing to say. No passionate stories to tell or meaningful moments to analyze to death. The news and the events of the world that used to affect me deeply no longer make any impact, except for a simple scan or a retweet.
It’s as if my greatest fantasy and worst nightmare have met in one lucid dream—where I am so utterly content in my personal life (finally!) that I am engulfed by a dull complacency, robbing me of any deeper introspective thoughts.
Have you ever felt like that? I know it sounds a little crazy, but I feel that when I’m doing well, I lose the urge to write. Instead, I completely dismiss the fact that I’m a writer and pretend to be someone else. Writing has helped me get over so many hardships, that when I am not really in one, it feels… almost unnecessary.
I tell the blank page: “Sorry, dude—you got the wrong guy. I don’t need you anymore.”
That’s not even all of it. I still think about writing all the time… mostly because I am highly aware that I’m not writing anything. And that I am a terrible blogger for that very reason; since, the No.1 rule of blogging is, after all, consistency!
I feel bad about it— almost like it’s a break up or something. I miss writing a lot. So I’ve gone and done something that I usually reserve for my broken heart only (which I suppose, in a way, I currently have) I’ve written a letter of which the contents you have been privy to so far.
I am bearing my feelings on the matter, which actually feels therapeutic. The keys are slowly beginning to feel familiar after months of dormancy. My eyes start to embrace the text upon the screen. Maybe I do have something to say after all.