It is not the lack of a MacBook or an 18-year Scotch that is delaying you from writing; it is the habit that is amiss. – Paul Jun
There are days I wake up and want to go back to the blankness of sleep right after, when the day seems to stretch into a dull eternity. I promised myself I would be posting something at least twice a week, on Monday and Wednesday, except last month when I went on a break, and anywhere in between as The Muses – that fading memory that I still hold on to, a melancholy that grips me suddenly, a random thought that spirals into hundreds of words, only a few of which survive – dictate. Most times, I can bang something relatively legible and coherent out. This past Monday, I could not seem to bring myself to do anything. And the worst part is that I felt no guilt, no compulsion to atone somehow or apologize to myself. We have all been there, when the things we consider most important seem like needless struggles, when we do not look forward to the exertion and the exhaustion of the steady climb towards ourselves. That is what writing is, is it not? That is what all creative endeavours are, right? Reaching for the versions of ourselves we think we should be? Was I tired? Yes, who is not these days? Have I no thoughts or worries or fears and anxieties that I can take advantage of, milking them of more than a metaphor but maybe a deeper meaning, or at least some sort of fun? Far from it. Have I too many? No, that would be pretentious, that I have so much to say that I cannot bear to say it. I just did not feel like applying myself, and I should have thought of this earlier: if I put something out, however horrendous, the mojo would trickle back. So, here we are then, drip drip drip.