Paid me a visit yesterday
It kindled the fire
Of my imagination
I was licked by its flames
Which did not burn me
It just heated my desire
To start again
* * *
I wrote this poem over 6 years ago.
When I had just discovered the joys of writing. When I discovered poetry. The feeling then was like what Neruda wrote in his poem "Poetry":
"I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky."
* * *
After years of suffering from writer's block, I am finding the urge to write again. I don't know if it is inspiration, but it is something that is making me write. Is it fear? Fear that I am losing my creativity? Fear that I am getting rusty?
I have heard that fear is a great motivator. I never though that it could inspire creativity. I always thought that it was something forced. Like medicine, vegetables. So you never like them. They have a negative connotation rather than something positive. Like creativity. Like creation.
Or is it regret? Or being on the brink of it? Or having your eyes opened one day to the fact that if you don't, then you will regret? Seeing someone keep the passion for writing, against all odds? Yes, I think that is it? But somewhere in that there is a mixture.
The kind of writers block I have been suffering from is not something that happened overnight.
It came gradually.
Like a river drying up in summer. The writing just reduced. Till it stopped.
First it was gushing. Then flowing. Then trickling. Drip drip drip. Till, it was no more. And then it was gone. And now it has been years. And it is all coming back. But not dripdripdriptrickleflowgush.
That's more like it. Unleasing itself like a caged animal. A caged animal that has been quiet too long and now needs to get out. The pent up anger and emotion, easily breaking the cage.
And getting out.
Out out out.
And its here.
* * *
I wrote this poem over 6 years ago. I can identify with it again today.