Sometimes, the mind is a TV screen on static. A curious, buzzing emptiness that starts from the brain and slowly spreads to the heart as I realise there’s nothing there. No thoughts to discuss, no emotions to pour on to the page, no complete, concrete ideas. Just a jumble of words – unclear, unfocused, unfinished.
Some call it a writer’s block. It’s more like a writer’s void. A vacuum where the creative process is supposed to be. All I have are questions. Why do I write? What do I have to say that hasn’t been said before, with more power and eloquence than I can imagine, let alone produce. My bookshelf alone contains hundreds of thousands of words, sentences, paragraphs, pages that have more value than my little scribblings can hope to achieve. So why do I drag them to the light as they are – stunted, undignified, unfinished?
This is self pity. I know it. Come tomorrow morning, I’ll scoff at it. But right now, when the three hands of the clock lay together (if only for a second), and the sky is the colour of spilled ink, this is the only complete emotion I can dredge out of a morass of unfinished thoughts. So be it. Let this be my tribute when I have nothing to give. Let me squeeze out each word like clotting blood, let me rip them out like infected teeth, let me twist and slice them off like gangrenous limbs, and lay them here – twisted, blackened, unfinished.