lost for words

Sitting on my bed with a rude smile on my

face. I look around my colourful cave and

can’t help but query myself, ‘why can’t you

just write’. I look at my fingers and flex

them repeatedly like a boxer going to war. A

yawn I couldn’t resist, the urge to go back

to sleep so overpowering. Yet if sleep was a

business, I would have been a millionaire by

now. If only motivation could be bought with

a little penny maybe I’d gladly pay and if

it could be stolen maybe, just maybe, I’d

sacrifice a little moral just to get rid of

this helplessness. It isn’t for lack of

ideas I ain’t writing, it is more of the

lightning-fast twisting and twirling of

these ideas I ain’t; and even my pen can

not with its powerful magic separate these

swift undulating and ever-rolling ideas. So

I stare at my ceiling and roll around in bed

cussing and frustrated.

The chirping birds inspire me, the crowing

cocks a reminder of life moving on,

the barking dogs an intermittent irritation, the

sound of passing cars, blaring horns and

planes still showing the world revolved and

the rolling blades of the fan echoed my

inner turmoil, yet I couldn’t like a fan

switch off theses blades…and still I was

caught like deer in sudden bright lights,

unable to fly even though I had legs like

wings. I read other works, and tell myself

I can write better, but my pen

wouldn’t dance to my tune and therein the

difference. So I make myself a bowl of

cornflakes and add milk. Pick up my laptop

and play Scrabble, hug my phone and

stay on the networks all day. Hating

myself for it and yet entangled in a

cataclysmic cycle.

A new day brings hope of a new separation,

and yet as soon as I sit up, the chains of

reality descend like a dark cloud heavy with

rainfall yet not spilling a drop onto the

dry expecting land. Waiting for Godot? So I

wonder what’s wrong with me, why won’t I

just write. And if I couldn’t write, why

wouldn’t these ideas just stop rushing in

and out of my doors and windows? And if I’m

just a little insignificant chess piece on

this gigantic chess board called Mother-

earth. I fight on, for I exist, I struggle

on, for I dream.


2 thoughts on “A WRITER’S LIMBO

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s