Writer's Block

Many a times when I do my daily rituals of going to office, coming back home, and sleeping, I find myself with really less feelings to express. There is no romanticism to life left sometimes and this happens to many of us doing our daily job. Its not that my job is really boring and I don't like it, but its work after all, it just can't be as poetic as love, friendships, sacrifices and all those wonderful things we have studied for ages, the unfathomable things! In the absence of these, life is a simple, plain and monotonous. No matter how much we try to define our job to be one of the next incredible things in the world, its just one way of consoling our own souls sometimes.

As I see, these feelings were definitely a part of me in the hey-days when I had loads of time to think, observe and write about the wonderful beauties this life has to offer, i.e. my college days. However when I started thinking about these recently and how for so many months I had not written a single line, it really struck me and forced me to ask "Am I really the writer I was". When I seldom go past my writings and feel the beauty in it, I sometimes fail to believe it were my hands writing them down and my mind and soul urging me to do so.

But now, my mind and soul has failed to respond, due to this sulky daily job life. My mind is so much out of thoughts, that once an opinionated writer, I fail to find anything to write about in absolute depth. And when I do start to write I end up in the writer's block. So I write some lines, trudging through the blockade created in my brain, just to write about my dilemma, "was I really the same writer?". In the end when I actually discover that despite not having any of the glorious feelings I used to think about, I still could write. This makes me wonder am I shrewd enough to put anything into a poem or am I really sharp minded.

Writer's Block

How I was a writer once 

This pen today questions 

As I ran out of words today 

And ideas more to say 

I wish I could have that flair 

When I wrote endlessly and with dare 

When words were fresh air that ventilate 

Now they make me vacillate 

I am confused at what I am doing 

Why I am writing or speaking 

Why do I work everyday 

Sapping out myself to dismay 

Drying up my words in the river 

That flowed once without shiver 

All this makes me debilitate 

And make my thoughts vacillate 

How I wonder this mind was sharp 

Acute enough to make others' warp 

Now for help which beckons 

When everyday life summons 

This mind now wishes to be free 

From this summoning decree 

The one which stops me to dilate 

And in between this fight I vacillate 

It makes me wonder now 

I wrote so much but how 

Am I really not acute 

Or am I just astute 

And how shall I know this 

Without my internal bliss 

How much I need all this to abate 

And make me not vacillate 

                             ---- Som Bose