Life without creativity is no life at all.
Have you ever felt that dark tingle in your bones, the chasm of bottomless misery in your heart, the rush of fiery poison in your blood when something you loved the most left you suddenly without a note? Terrible, isn’t it?
That’s how I feel these days whenever I try to write. It’s as if by some cruel twist of fate I have been stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing in sight and no way of returning home – to my ink and paper.
Every time I sit before a piece of paper, or even my laptop for that matter, a burning restlessness scores through me. I haven’t felt this magnitude of helplessness before. I am trapped. All because of one thing – a writer’s block.
I am blocked. I can’t write. I can’t breathe. I can’t survive. It’s like someone is holding me under water for longer than I can hold my breath.
I pace inside my head. I pace outside. Nothing heals this wound. I am walled in all the sides and the enclosure is shrinking with every passing day. I can’t survive.
Inspiration is to creativity what oxygen is to life.
And right this moment I am sitting inside a chamber devoid of the oxygen I need to live. It’s painful, this lack of inspiration, this slow death of my creativity.
As I write this piece after almost three weeks of silence I can feel this tremendous energy blazing inside my soul, thumping on the walls as it looks for cracks to be let out. One sliver, that’s all it needs to break through.
Utterly uninspired that’s what I am now. Can anyone help me break out of this prison?