WRITER’S BLOCK

(Confessions of a bonafide hypochondriac)

I make mistakes. Words don’t come to my head. For some reason, there is a jumble causing a disconnect between my brain and mouth (in this case, my pen). I am making errors, causing me irritation like a prolonged episode of jamais vu. Words I used to play with before, twist around, manipulate and then gloat in glee when they meekly obeyed me, now seem like a dream. Yeah, just like when I get up and the dream, when asleep, seemed so vivid, slips away, like nameless, formless randomness that progressively turns to absurdity! My words, my friends... are threatening to forsake me like those dreams that slip away. They assume a misshapen form in my head, in stark contrast to the time when they used to have a concrete structure, perfect in every detail, like a stone statue in belur.
These flawed misshapen words come out of me in a writing that has lost its previous sharpness. Even the writing! The letters are somehow shoddy and appear blunted like my thoughts. For some weird reason, the word ‘neologisms’ has been flitting across my mind since I started writing. Neologisms- new words coined by a schizophrenic, which have absolutely no meaning, which he uses in his writing and speech. Thoughts of neologisms and my inability to write as easily as before have started giving me ideas. I don’t know what is coming over me.

*************

I go to the psychiatry section of the library, pick up a standard book and look under speech and writing in schizophrenics. “Barrage indecent in the incubus and succubus, I strongly think war alcohol practically comments on both sexes should participate freely repeated lord besmirched and sharp concrete structure sons and daughters…” I shut the book and walk back. I smile in spite of myself. It is a long road to madness.

I dont write only in vacations. I write in my busy schedule too. OK?!

You:What makes you happy?

Me: PERFECTION!

You: tell me the truth!

Me: I swear!

You: (laughs)

Me: (laughs harder)

The oracle

I cannot have done more, cannot have done less to get her. She is everything for me. The only girl I live and care for. She is so beautiful. Her smooth shiny skin, jet-black hair, those large black eyes, her incredible smile displaying her white evenly set teeth. Her lithe figure, the perfect figure, her skirt clinging to her waist and hips, she embodies all that which brings happiness to the heart thanking the heavens that there is perfection.
I could look at her for days, struck by her face, I could listen to her speak forever, watching as she spoke each syllable, her tongue touching the roof of her mouth, the way she winked sometimes when she said something, her lips stained with the wild berries we ate together, the times I accidentally brushed her smooth hand. I was not in love with her. No. I was happy just to gaze at her, just to look at her and drink on her beauty.
I could drink wine and not be intoxicated but I could look at Swathi and be so. Yes her name… Swa- thi… said separately in two breaths. The only two breaths that made life worth living.
And yet when my doctor says she is a figment of my imagination, I want to kill him, but I will not do so, because Swathi went away because I killed so many others when they said she is a lie. I have not seen her since. Maybe if I control my temper she will come back. Nobody can call you a lie Swathi. You are the only truth. you are the only real thing in this fraudulence.

Come back…