The feeling of writing escapes me at every thought of it. I yearn to twist and shape words at my beck and call, letting my mind warp my imagination and take it to places I have never ventured before. I desire to transform my own plain surroundings into something extraordinary; a sanctuary for the creatively lost and a home for all who crave the building of worlds and the cosmos. It is this passion that morphs my perspective into vibrancy but it is also this passion that drives me insane.
I see words but cannot piece them together – they clutter my mind and I immediately become a hoarder, clutching at each and every word in hopes that it will form a sentence; anything that can change into an idea or image. I try everything from prompts, image stimulation, book reading and delving into the real world in an effort to catch a wisp of an idea I could use. “Writer’s block” makes me miserable and alone – my world is bleak because it is blank, the page seeps emptiness and it engulfs me into a dark void of dissatisfaction and anxiety.
I watch as new authors publish new works, but nothing comes to mind. There comes a point where not even jealousy can rekindle the fire of writing that dampens with each step back I take. Where is my pen? I grasp at the darkness around me and only touch upon the ashes of rejected pieces, none of which would help in any situation – I find that I am the perfectionist type which isn’t very helpful either. My hands shake and I begin to realise that writing is an addiction that I do not wish to part from. It has become a part of me that allows me to explore the wickedness of my soul but also the purity; I touch upon aspects of the world that are thought to be untouchable and polish them, highlighting their importance to the world. People need to know, and yet, I cannot tell them a thing in this abyss.
And so, I try to fight against the invisible wall and try to clamber up the deep chasm – it is this new-found fervour that helps me and I find the words start to tumble out of me. First, they build a ladder, then a staircase, even wings. They transform and shape themselves to my every desire and the feeling bursts out of me: joy. It’s back, I say to myself and let out a breath of relief. My most important power has returned to me a new hunger to educate not only myself but others and with this I intend to draw up a plan to invigorate others much like I have done for myself as my works are not only for myself but for others to perceive for themselves. Writing can save lives and today, it has saved mine.