• I believe I’ve forgotten how to write.

    And if I did, not a specter of my former shell exists anymore. Nor a shadow or a sliver or even a crumb of a remnant. In the silence of my own woes, I will not plead or kneel but merely to cast a grey horizon upon my own iridescent creation.

    If I have lacked what I had been brimming with fullness before, there will be a quiet unsettlement between my mind and my heart, although they had always been unsettled with each other but with a lack of writing, I believe the thin thread that holds them will finally break and I will no longer understand imagination as my reality and reality as reality and everything else would be a blur.

    What I find the nuisance, and uninvited sorrow, is the heavy burden it brings on my senses and a deep perturbing loss. And all this I feel is inexplicably baffling and I become sure that I will recoil into the abandoned corner of the universe where no breath or dust lays.

    When they speak in their written words, each and every word sewn with a dynamic significance or hidden meaning, I see myself on the surface of the ocean they created. And I am there standing, bare and soulless, shivering and unsure, secured in insecurity.

    It makes me feel I have lost my propounding profile, the one I held with tactless care and mindless haste out of a tinge of coveting ungratefulness and blinded ambition and I end up to believe…I believe I’ve forgotten how to write.