11 July 2022 - Discovering Writers: Or, Mourning My Own?

The eleventh day of July.

When I last wrote here on the sixth, I wrote an elaborate entry about a few things, and then my phone died, resulting in the entry getting deleted. I have been in mourning for those words since and have not been able to write anything since. Yesterday, I finished and submitted an article for a competition. And, today... I feel like writing again.

Rarely, does the advice of "Do the thing" work when someone is demotivated and cannot commit to an action. And that rarity is writing. This is probably one of the few scenarios where the advice "just write" actually works! 

I know I will never be able to revive or resurrect those words we all lost on the sixth of July, and hence, I will not try. But, that doesn't mean I will stop writing about that or writing in general. I have come across two writers and have been reading their works, mostly columns and newsletters. One thing I am always envious of and love is capturing the essence of the mundane. Phases like these where I discover such writers are what make me both happy and sad. I am happy because I love reading them. Sad, because... I miss those days when at least I was able to dream of becoming a writer. I just miss being able to plan for a career in writing. Now, it has been reduced to a hobby that disappears when I am too busy with academics or too tired to pick up the pen. It sometimes sits in the background, waiting to be done, and I keep delaying it. I postpone my thoughts and words. When my back rests on the bed, I am exhausted and a realization hits me. I keep taking writing for granted and keep procrastinating. It makes me so sad that once there was a time when I considered this act to be my entire life, and now it is not even properly yoked to my daily life activities. It makes me so, so sad. The idea of starting a newsletter has been running in my mind. But... what do I write? Will anyone read, let alone pay me for these words? I am now constricted to shifting between my side of the bed and this table. Restricted to half of a room shared with another member. Just wandering through life with no desire to experience anything. Settled comfortably into a Pyrrhic life, delusive contentment. I don't feel competent to even write anymore. Words feel empty. A bundle of lies stitched together. An attempt to choke the hollowness. How long do you fake it? Even when you see death approaching, you can only smile until it holds your hands. At one point, you have to give in to the end.

- Oizys.