Privilege, Incompetence and Existence.

 "Writer's block is a privileged statement. If you can't write, it just means you've run out of raw material to create from."

These were the exact words a professor of mine told us in our writing club. And as someone who suffered with writing consistently, these words hit a bit close to home. That day, I came home, opened my laptop and sat there to write. For about an hour, it was just me staring at the blinking cursor. I got fed up, slammed the laptop shut and walked away. 

But the guilt of not writing keeps eating at me. It's not like I don't try. Every day I sit to write a new chapter for my novel. But I end up hating the hours of work I just did. I open this very blog after avoiding its stare for more than a month. But words fly away just as I try to reach it. Even writing this is only a way of me penning down my feelings. Maybe it's not privilege, but rather incompetence.

Maybe, I just emptied all my creativity into those two chapters, twenty poems and ten blog posts. Just as I started to believe that, I wrote a poem on spot for an exam. A poem I didn't hate. That was when I remembered. I have always created when I was at my worst. Because my works are not art, they are testimonies. Proof that I feel, proof that I cry, proof that I exist. And lately, I haven't felt. I haven't cried. I haven't existed. 

My favorite writings have always been bluntly honest about what I feel. And with all that turned off, I cannot write honestly. Maybe I am a masochist, or maybe I just want to write again so bad, that I am willing to get hurt. I am willing to cry. I am willing to exist again.

I've been stuck in the void for far too long. The day I crawl out of it is just around the corner. And when I do, I know I will write well again.


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