Accepting the Emptiness
The void persists.
A long quest for words with a pen in hand still remains. Is it that I have stretched too hard or squeezed the last of the words I had in the depository — I don’t know, but it is specific, very specifically warns me that the day has come.
Either I label it as Writer’s Block or continue tapping the keyboard to give birth to sentences; speaking gibberish, writing trash, unfolding every page of the book of life with nothing to be found, or staring at the vastness of the aluminium-coated unending sky — nothing brings the lost words back in track. What I am left with is the capital letters on the keyboard, dazzling in the dark of night with soothing backlights.
The trees nearby grown as tall as the four-storey building don’t look so succulent now; their leaves translate to me as thousands of teeth laughing at my incompetence, and birds don’t peek at my desk or even come to the balcony to search for foods — the southern winds has passed the news of my failure as my pen bleeds but doesn’t find the right expression to express.
But that’s not sufficient; it would be better if the raindrops dried out before I woke up, staring at the screen in despair. They have stayed there, hanging from the pearly white iron rods protecting thieves from entering the house — they are telling me to surrender, putting the thoughts aside as I am damaging the brain cells rather than impregnating them with the productive flow of incarnated blessings.
Filling the space has become too much of a journey. Getting back is most unlikely. But the longing for words continues; no matter how persistently I am chasing, it drifts afar — leaving me like the ants searching for food particles on freshly wiped milk-white tiles. Black ants. They keep looking. Perhaps they will find something at the end of the day, and the achievement will make their day — a joy of conquering the next few days; insurance — tells them they won’t starve.
But me — I will live too, only from outside. A part of me will die unattended unless I find a reason to live; through words. That’s too ambitious of me, claiming to be what I am not or ever will be. Still, dreaming about it feels too relevant — it keeps the monsters growling inside at ease; otherwise, they will tear my soul apart, feasting on the imposter syndrome I have developed. Perhaps some other day.
“I felt myself being invaded through and through, I crumbled, disintegrated, and only emptiness remained.”
Thank you, Stanislaw Lem.
You got me right.
