The pages are blank. The white stares back at me, taunting me. Yet I can’t make the words dance in shades of blue like I once used to. The river of thoughts seems to have been stopped. Yet, I don’t remember building a dam. Something blocks it. I ask myself what, but I don’t find an answer. The quest for it seems to dishearten me.
I’m tired. No. Exhausted… of energy, of words. Have I told myself that I’m average so much that I’ve started to believe it is true? I want to find that exhilaration again, that happiness I felt when I wrote. I want to lose myself in the worlds I concoct. They held magic. I never needed a reason to rhyme, a reason to write. I wanted to. That was good enough. When did I begin to think that that wasn’t enough?
What I write, I want it to be meaningful. To me, if not to anyone else. I want it to be special, to bring me hope even when I feel like I’m falling into a bottomless pit.
I want to return to the magic that I know my words hold. I want to return home.
(© Vinay Leo R. @ I Rhyme Without Reason, 30th October 2016)