"Don't you ever suffer from writer's block?" she asked intently.
I suppose it was one of those polite curiosity-type questions. But I do not understand these polite, curious-type things.
At one level I can peel layer-upon-layer; at another, I am quite literal. So, if someone asks me if I ever suffer from writer's block, I will tell them.
It starts with a simple, "No."
But that is not the only answer. There are times when I cannot write the way I want to...so I do the equivalent of spluttering. I just jot down disjointed words.
Unlike an amputation where the limb is cut from the rest of the body, this disjointedness maintains a thread of connectivity. I can see the bones, or the tissue, often some flesh hanging loose and drops of blood.
I am told I am morbid.
That is funny. If one is morbid, would one think so lucidly about the imagery of one's parts being torn to shreds?
I may not go through a writer's block, just a mental block. I may want to wear blinkers, rose-tinted glasses, hide behind doors, barricade everything.
This is writing, I know, but what I really want to say is being held back. It is hidden even from me. It may take two hours, two days, maybe more...who knows?
Sometimes things snap. It can make one think and write or put one at a loss for the particular words to convert those thoughts.
I don't mind that. But those thoughts assail me and they come veiled. The moment I try to remove that curtain from their faces, I find a skull staring at me – a hideous smile-like look. I poke into the hollows of the eyes.
My fingers move about helplessly. I can say nothing, see nothing.
"lab-e-khamosh se afshaa hogaa
raaz har rang mein rusvaa hogaa"