13.03.07

Shjdfk dsjk hejkslh wiqoeqw jsdl;rjwei; rjiw;mdjj rjeiwiq;d rei.

Ewjwrk rjiweorj jreeor.

Werhjklnhalcwo3 rjkewjcwril. Eopqw3 jednldk uwdieoqwdl hrue uyeri.

I am having suffering from a writer’s block.

Or a typer’s block, as Microsoft Word would like me to believe.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I should pick a pen instead of staring wistfully at the screen.

After all, before a pen can write, it can read your mind.

Trust me, I tried.

It’s not the inspiration that’s betraying me.

It’s the words.

They are like dirty underwear. You never seem to find one when you really need it.

See what I mean?

Any written word I stumble across makes me flinch with embarrassment. Anything, be it a newspaper, instruction manual or even the street signs.

“If they can, why the hell can't I?”

Even the Nike slogan does little to encourage at such times.

A close friend has been pestering/encouraging me to write more often. So has my dad, who still believes in God and the flattering hope that he will buy my book someday.

I didn’t want to disappoint him. So I tried hard to convince him otherwise but he says there is no other way of explaining the universe.

Words flirt with me. I would rather prefer someone called Isabelle, but it’s only Times New Roman who teases me, seduces me with not with her curves but with her kerns.

But much like Isabelle, the words never turn up.

Sometimes I feel claustrophobic. Caught in a mesh of thoughts, feelings and emotions that beg for a name. But I fail to give them one since I fail to write. A conversation can be a catharsis for women. But not for me. I need to first speak with ink.
Maybe this is my catharsis. Maybe these are the words that will help me find those that are hidden.

Like the word, which describes the thing that you never seem to find when you really need it.