I cannot write with the same ease and flair that has belonged to my fingers and mind since I learnt how to spell and hold a pencil two decades ago. I wonder if this is a symptom of an excessively cluttered mind with overflowing compartments or because I haven't managed to read anything inspiring in an unusually long time. They say that reading good literature increases the flow of one's creative juices; it supposedly smooths and shines up those tiny ideas that are already present in your mind into becoming something bigger and better. However, I've always believed that the kind of originality that appeals to me when I read something I end up liking cannot possibly be plagiarized through another writer's work, no matter if that's an indirect hijacking of creativity.
How does one stay true to one's self in a circumstance such as this, and how long does such a creative drought last?
I've been doing this for longer than I can remember, and I am quite aware of my temperament as a writer which is why I have been repeatedly telling myself to remain calm and let the ideas return home. I suppose they are much like migratory birds that only come back when the weather is more hospitable and kind.
So here's me hoping very sincerely for the words to return and fill me up like a fat vat of magic potion that shall lift me out of this rut that I seem to be furnishing. When they return, I can imagine it's going to feel like a warm hug from the man I love who I haven't seen for the longest time in a while.
My life always ends up telling me parallel stories that come in twos. There's always something to learn and grow with.
Until that glorious and much anticipated moment that I manage to enchant you (and myself) with a relatively respectable post, I hope you have a happy weekend, devoid of earthquakes, storms and/or being away from the one you love.