So sorry, this is where I pull the curtains.
I don’t know where I am. But I’m not at home.
Like shit, this happened.
Cheers.
My World, My Words. My sights, My sighs.
So sorry, this is where I pull the curtains.
I don’t know where I am. But I’m not at home.
Like shit, this happened.
Cheers.



These words are just spilling out. I'm not sure if this will turn out to be a sensible piece. I'll follow the drag.
Most times I get nudged to write, either by some experience, or just by the common writer’s need to give a disturbing thought a lettered face. In some cases, it is the struggle to marry conflicting views together, and writing becomes the only leeway for a settlement.
This often comes with its misfortune. I realize that while employing writing as a means to resolving the conflict, I end up inviting some other voices, different shades of perspectives, of voices once muffled, or once inexistent. Of course this is good. But first, I’ll pause, aghast at my self-infliction. Should I continue to write? Should I just give up? Should I just engage someone in a discourse instead of resorting to writing? Questions. Probings. Doubts. And then, the words will take a life of their own. As they begin to spill out from their enclave, I’ll negotiate my way through them, and then some kind of light - a strange glow of revelation, will bear on the naked slab. Thoughts will begin to interact with one another: agreeing, disagreeing. Before the first yawn sets in, I would have written a piece. Before I know it, I would have dotted the last sentence.
Now I have to digress. It’s often the lot of a writer, especially when what is to be written is yet unformed in ones mind, that funny situation where thoughts fly mischievously, playing hide and seek, resisting every attempt to strewn them into sentences; if not to make a sense out of them but at least to ease the writer’s unsettled mind. Even when the thoughts are well formed, ready to be typed out, they start another form of mischief, this time confronting the writer with where and how to start. This is a familiar terrain.
When nibbled to write, I do not wait for long, before I resign into calmness, into a state where I’m likely to be uninterrupted. And if that occurs in the morning, the better for me, since it appears I’m mostly alert during that part of the day. It’s usually a strange bonus if I get to write anything at all before night calls it a day.
Now, I’m supposed to write. The impulses are right. I just don’t know how to start. This is it! That dreaded state. Writer’s block. A distracting clog on the wheel of invention.
"Maybe there is no such thing as a writer’s block," I ask myself sometimes. Maybe it’s just ones perfectionist tendency pressed beyond tolerable limits, and resulting into some kind of cooling down after a tenuous mental exhaustion.
All the same these are not the words I planned to put down, I think I’m blocked.
But this is a blog post, isn't it? ;)
I love Asa. By the day way, who doesn’t? Here is a brilliant review of Asa, her eponymous album. I hope it will be a first-time consideration for any recognition the album might be up for.