The relentless lingering feeling I have been experiencing, of not being able to write or create stems ffrom the fact that I am older, harder,
more bitter, more melanchoic and more tainted.
Its like a bad dose of constipation... emotional constipation.
A bad case of writers block. A dam to whatever creative flow I had in me.
Its a horrible accumalation of feelings and experiences best forgotten.
Suddenly to articulate the words,
to pen down my thoughts on paper is a task so great
that at times I wonder if I can just do it...
Write and write and write.
Create and paint and draw.
But there seem to be layers upon layers of emotion surrounding everything.
Yet there, in all the self-confusion and self-inflicted layers ,
the fact remains that with the knowledge that you are loved,
it is possible to work your way out of the gloom, the insecurities, the confusion
and the muddy waters you have placed around and in yourself.
Love truly is like a beacon,
a ray of hope that shines intoxicatingly.
It beckons you to come closer, to let go, to be free of it all...
I am letting go...
but will you be there to catch me?