Maintaining a blog is a very difficult ordeal for someone who is in constant throes of a writer’s block. It is as if my imagination has patterned itself after the blue moon. But I have realised, after considerable experiments to break out of it and a great many unrecorded marathons of cat videos on Youtube, that my emotions only flow out on paper when I am at my most turbulent. Alcohol could edify the other reasons but I’m not all that frequently inebriated to affirm the same.

There have been innumerable nudges from my friends and relatives on how I should write more often but what I have observed is I fall back on anecdotes from my own life when I cannot construct anything new. That or the same infuses itself in my stories, poems and other writings in a syncretic way. I have never been fully capable of creating something out of scratch that is not laced with little snippets from my own life. Being an extremely closed-up person, I hold back things about life that need the greatest addressal solemnly because I’m not fond of accepting them myself. Writer’s block is mostly an excuse. Thus, I sincerely understand the kind of pits people plummet themselves to only to be able to put words on paper that they otherwise have trouble articulating. Although unhealthy, I suppose the words that flow out of our inner chaos is probably the truest version of ourselves that we exhibit before the world. Falling short of words is not elementally unnatural. Holding back that which we want to let out of our chest probably needs the right socio-temporal space, and probably the right amount of alcohol.

Fiction, generating from a figment of our imagination might be poetic with its own aesthetic beauty. It will however never be relatable as the confessions when we go through physical exhaustion, mental panic or anxiety or such a tumultuous environment. Our thoughts are never as collected and coherent however violated the grammar. I’m not substantiating that chaos is beautiful. No trigger ever is. What it produces in the end, of course, possess the capabilities to baffle all our senses. So, to those who can balance the act by cleverly tricking their mind into the turmoil are the ones who ultimately get out of the mosh pit of abstractions. The rest of us obscure the truth beneath the misconstructions, supplementing them with stories we wish were not ours. We carefully select the parts we wish to integrate into our writing to throw people off the scent. We incorporate truth into lies to hide our little skeletons in the overflowing closet. I don’t suppose anyone as a writer, if not famous and hounded by the paparazzi, anyone who, like me doesn’t paint their lives as an open book, would let on too much about our lives to the world. It’s charming, and sad at the same time, we contort truth in measures we find comfort in.

So, the next time people ask me for advice to break out from writer’s block, deficiency of ideas will never be an impediment to your art. Only the honesty behind your emotions will be your one true strength, and more importantly, your weakness. Flinging yourself into depression through bulimia or anorexia is never setting a good example of what you are truly capable of. The good writing, the most life changing writing will find you when you are at your breaking point. As elusive as it might be, if allowed to occur naturally it will force currents no one is strong enough to hold back. Don’t court your chaos. Let it come on its own.

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