That’s right, that’s how I feel all the time these days. There’s no creative originality left in me, all barren. Since June last year I have been procrastinating, trying to convince myself there’s something great awaiting at the end of the tunnel life has propelled me into. That I can again write stuff that would please the reader in me, I was lying to myself this entire time.
It troubled me to write longer than 3 sentences, much like the effort I make to respond or strike up a conversation with people lately. I used to be a recluse in my adolescence, but never had I faced these doubts that would incapacitate me middle of writing anything. I am not in a time warp situation here, and certainly I am not enjoying this year long creative break. Nothing inspires me, not even my personal cesspool of sorrow that people think I secretly bask in, like a fuel to everything I compose.
I wonder if there’s any longing left in me. Sensual or spiritual, that would rattle this disturbing creative stagnancy at once.
I have lost any interest or pleasure, if there was once, in impressing people with the poems I would write. It is almost like a snake’s moulting off its skin, I have outgrown a predilection of my past. I don’t like writing any more.
I am being dared to start writing in my mother-tongue, in Bengali. It is supposed to be a story, more like a motion picture the way we had discussed it (documentary). I will be needing a lot of research to speak the least about efforts, a good camera and a compatriot (Bengali preferably) who will be gungho about assisting me in taking on this project.
I am mulling things here, I might not venture in in course when the interest fizzles out. Anyway, I will be publishing the story in parts on my blog but they will be password protected.
That’s all the update for now!