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 aluminum-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.

Photo by Austris Augusts on Unsplash

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; an 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.

You got me right.