Writing or Something Like That

I have somehow always felt that my grasp over the languages (yes, in plural), got brutally butchered sometime between my miserably long 10th grade and my final year in graduation. This, despite having Chekov, Ibsen and Miller for company. Rediscovering the art of linguistics, I realized, was not going to come easily. After all, salvation is not instant coffee.

Three years and a few months later, I have come a full circle (or maybe I traipsed a pretzel like path which never crossed the same point!) My writing skills have deteriorated to an extent that, even my literate but uneducated (in the art of writing) brother has decided that I bought my degrees the same way I buy clothes for my wardrobe (befitting someone two sizes smaller than me).

Hopefully, it is a case of temporary amnesia and not dementia, because otherwise I will need to figure out a new way of becoming as famous as 'size zero' ( why should I emulate someone who will be forgotten two months after he/she dies? Size zero is immortal!) But my hope levels are fighting a losing battle. 'Hope against hopen', Mr. Ogden Nash! What a joke! While you hit jackpot with an immortal phrase, we are forced to try and convince ourselves to agree to disagree.

And today, when I finally have the time and the inclination to sit and write, each word takes an eternity to formulate itself and activate my neurons. Writer's block, till six years ago, was an alien concept, a lazy excuse. Today, it has become the beginning, the middle and the end of all my conversations. A prolific writer, am not. A mind-numbed one, I am soon to become. An existential dilemma shrouds my being, as reading and writing don't co-exist. As of today, that is my state of being. Tomorrow, I may decide I am the reincarnation of Sylvia Plath. What can I say? While I live in my glass house, my creativity may become a bio-plasmic body and visit other galaxies. After all, my atonement for defiling my talent, may come from adopting a stylized form of lying.