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.

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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.