Since then, all efforts at mustering an ensemble of workable syllables, stringing them together into a coherent whole and thus producing an output of any notable implication have been thwarted by a cruel dearth of mentionable ideas and an abundance of slumber.
For the last few days, it has become increasingly apparent that the quest for the next ‘big’ idea would end just round the 27th corner. Consequently, after much deliberation and self introspection, I have forced myself to spew a form of shit that carries a faint fragrance of ornamental English language. Nevertheless, the true calling of this piece shall not escape detection by the discerning reader.
A good friend of mine (his identity shall remain concealed for reasons of self preservation) has been confronted by similar trials since the beginning of the second term. In an effort to keep the fire burning inside, against his better judgment, he chose to submit to and seek refuge in the dreaded ‘Blogger’s Inanity Syndrome’ – a device frequently employed by a considerable chunk of the Blogger Community. Since then, his inability to construct any useful content, barring those for academic purposes, has been scary.
“Why should I write when I have nothing to say?” I asked myself one fine morning, while I sat bleary eyed in the loo. The stress on my brain, thus shifted momentarily elsewhere, I reflected, as I often do in such circumstances, on the matter awhile.
The answer occurred to me presently.
“Because if that is the case, you’d never write”
Inclined as I was to believe otherwise, I had suspected the existence of this truth for many moons. But the abrupt revelation of it, particularly in the claustrophobic confines of my temporary accommodation, unsettled me somewhat.
But then, ego seldom allows room for self realization. And eager to not become the trigger for change in this element of human psyche, I promptly proceeded to reason myself out of the absurdity of my deeper conscious’ plaintive assertion.
I will continue to write. I will continue to architect soulless and repetitive forms of literature and in the process, proudly display the retarded state of my psychological makeup.
In the hope that some day, somewhere, the 27th corner will be reached.