It was never my intention to leave this blog ignored and neglected for so long. I don't even remember taking a conscious sabbatical from writing. Before I knew it though, I was going through a dry spell, one of the worst I have faced in a long, long time.
It's funny, this whole writer's block thing. For someone who believed that writer's block was just another excuse to not write, to hide comfortably under the pretense of an established condition most writers go through, grappling with it was strange.
Contrary to popular belief, it does not set in whenever there's a dearth of passion. It just does. It creeps up on you, when you least expect it to. You ignore it at first, you pretend you're immune to it. You burst your bubble soon enough. And it just becomes easier to sway, to sway to a tune you don't set, a tune you have no knowledge of. Six months pass and you feel like you are never writing again. You lose the right to call yourself a writer anymore, hence rendering the very term pointless.
But, you want to write. More than anything else. More than you admit. To yourself. By now, you've reached far beyond the point where you could blame it on 'writer's block' and shrug it off. So you wait. You wait for when you think you'll be ready. In truth though, you're only fooling yourself, pretending some more. That mythical, magical day you wait for will never come till I beckon it.
This is home. This is my space. I have come to reclaim it. I created this space for a reason. It was meant as much for catharsis as an almost introspective glance. Without it, I felt like a part of me was just barely hanging in there. Suspended. Perhaps it was an over-dependence. Perhaps it just meant I wasn't committed enough, or that I felt a little like Alice. Either way, it's real. It's happening. I'm reclaiming.
