“As long as you can start, you are all right. The juice will
come.” - Ernest Hemingway
I never questioned it when they came to me,
Pages of prose and stanzas of poetry,
Puns, metaphors,
Allusions, jokes and rhymes,
Whence it came, I could never tell,
Perhaps a spot behind my heart?
The flow was so smooth the writing would surprise even me,
And make me wonder if I was possessed,
But I would stand there beaming in pride,
At applause and genuine words of praise and admiration,
Taking it all in,
My ego swelling,
I named myself an artist, a writer,
Forgetting the roots that gifted it to me,
A skill that I claimed to be mine,
Intoxicated by the drink of fame,
Taking it for granted,
Feasting on the glory,
Yet even conscience sits back and watches me dance,
Is this how art is? Passion that craves flattery?
And today, when my pen hardly moves as it touches paper,
I wonder what went wrong,
Panicking, finding things to blame,
Telling myself that it's just a phase,
I rest my pen down, thinking it has all gone,
And it sprouts yet again, like nothing ever happened,
Pouring forth like a waterfall after a drought,
And again I take a dip, drenching myself in delight.
Written on 28th March, 2016 (11:37pm) at Central Library, IIT Bombay.
I recommend this article: https://litreactor.com/columns/the-myth-of-writers-block
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