An unanimated writer.

“Write, write, write!”, he told himself first thing in the morning. It had been almost a month now since he had written anything, but there was never a day where he hadn’t thought about writing. At times when he sat in his hostel room in front of the computer, thoughts come flowing towards him, “Hey, the silence of this room is so brilliant that I simply have to write about it”. By the time he logs into his wordpress account, the silence is no more, and so is his motivation.

Being depressed and wounded at not being able to do the one thing that he claims to love doing, he takes a stroll along the streets. He keeps his eyes open for he knows that motivation was out there somewhere in something.

He sees the beggars on the streets and thinks. “Oh my, what a lucky life I have. I seriously should write about the blessings that I have”. However, for some reason that has been eluding him, his thoughts go no further than that one sentence.

He sees a group of girls standing on the road side, all dressed up and beautified, ready to be picked up by someone. He thinks, “What miserable circumstances have brought these poor creatures to this! Or maybe they do enjoy what they do? I should go talk to one of them.” A certain shiver up his spine and sudden drying up of his tongue pulls his mind back from the idea. He is at a loss for words again.

He stops taking the bus to his office. Instead he walks half an hour each day hoping to find motivation waiting for him somewhere out there. He sees the traffic police, practicing some sort of dance moves with both his hands. He sees the man on the bike, ear on his ring, tattoo on his face and arms, sports shoe, torn jeans, a few necklaces, a few rings, shiny teeth, jeans jacket, a cigarette in his mouth, having an expression of his freedom to run down anybody on the street being denied of him.

He sees the people selling fruits and vegetables on the grocery carts. He sees their children running and playing around them. He wonders how happiness is relative and broods on what it was like when he was their age. He sees couples walking hand in hand and thinks whether it was luck or dismay that he witnessed. He sees the different cars being driven by different people roaring past him in an endless manner.

He fails to find what he looks for in all this and it hurts him more than ever to not know what it is that is holding him back. Why having so much exposure could not find him anything to write about. This was not the case when he was at college where he could find interesting things to think about and write almost every day. What has changed? Oh, what has changed!

He reaches his office and sits down to work. He wants to write. He is burning inside. Alas, all that he finds himself writing are mails. Just mails. He tries to find joy in them but try as he might, he could not. He tells to himself, “Write.” Nothing happens. He again orders, “I said write!”. Still nothing. “Write, damn you!”.

He composes himself. He knows time waits for no one. He realized he can’t wait for motivation. He logs into his wordpress account. He finishes writing a piece. A gentle smile comes over his face. He realizes that all is not lost. He has time. He will try. He has to succeed.

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4 thoughts on “An unanimated writer.

  1. A change from the creative writter to busy mail composer! 😉 But all the creativity will be remains hidden until a special moment… wait for it!

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