Running out of the patience (or perhaps the intelligence?) to construct sentences which adequately describe your mental framework at a point in time ought to be treated with a lot of tender loving care from those who live with and around the writer.
It isn't a petty matter to be laughed at or waved off with a casual nonchalance. This feels, to the writer, like mental constipation. However disgusting and smelly that might sound, it is the stark ugly truth and there is no better word to describe the feeling. I, for one, have been bearing the brunt of this horrid condition for what seems like too long to be true. My brain is burdened with the immense possibilities carried by the hundreds of ideas that float through my head all day long. And yet, when I put pen to paper, they seem to evaporate with a smirk, as if merely to tease me and put me down, and within a split second, my ideas don't seem worthy of another human's readership to me anymore. It becomes a matter of self confidence over time, until finally, like I am doing today, you must just break through these walls that are throttling your imagination and share your mad brain with the rest of this world.
Life is always going to be a great flood of emotions and voices, but I would hate it if my voice wasn't loud enough to make a difference and affect lives. Unless I touch some homes with a ray of sunshine, hope and the power to spark an imaginative fire in the minds of those who read my words, this life will have been in vain, and it shall turn into a burden I'll carry on into my next life.
My parents and my fiance have been doing their best and egging me on, trying to get me to write, because apparently, that's the one thing I'm supposed to do well. They don't know how this adds about a metric tonne of pressure on my dainty shoulders and I, being the legendary lightweight, nearly succumb to the weight every time my ideas fail to turn into respectable literature.
It doesn't help when you criticize yourself more than is considered humanly healthy, and create delusions in your mind about having peaked too early.
No, this has not been me rotting in some kind of decadent complacency, or hiding behind the excuses of career, traffic, lack of time, or my upcoming wedding. This is me accepting, wholeheartedly, that life changes; it evolves and remodels itself with newer places and newer people. There are tectonic shifts that have been happening in my mind and heart since the past few months, paving the way for a newer phase that holds the promise of love, travel and adventure- all things that I depend on to fuel my neurons and fire me up.
So here, with this candid confession and intimation, I hope that the words that I churn out henceforth will arrive at shorter intervals and with an impressively regular frequency. I need to polish my art until I reach that glorious day when I can spend my days being true to myself, immersing myself in that delightful world of literature: being my own boss, making my own rules, and telling people- with genuine pride- that I am, indeed, a writer.