The other day I stood in the shower, and as one often tends to think of the most unrelated things as they stand under the water, I thought of my intrinsic urge to write, how the words have fallen out of my hands as the drops fell from above. I stood there engulfed in the water, drenched, as I had been by words for all these years.
Where there is a thought about my writing, there is always a minor disappointment wedged like in some corner you cannot clean too easily. Like how we often fail to mention things that are always there, even if they are out of place, I seldom say a word about this practice. The fact that we fail to mention the ever-present sky does not mean it is not there, and such is the regret of having to go at it on my own. Sure, there is a spray of appreciation here and there, but there is mostly a continual lull which makes me think of those writers who had a friend or two who read each word, not because they were fond of reading, but because they were written by someone they knew, and that was enough. It makes me think of them, and it sends a wave of envy over me, and soon, that splashes to become regret. Such is the nature of things we regret—we can seldom control what we brood over. So, I stood there and let everything wash over me. There was work to do and words to write.
My exhaustion reaches its tipping point, and then, the scales tip over, and slowly, like Sisyphus, I gather my wits, and I get on with it. All the while, my visage reflects that of the sea—both lying about the surging activity right underneath. Perhaps, one day, when many years have passed, and I am close to turning sixty like my father will in a few days, I will be asked whether it was difficult to write, and I will divulge all the gory details of muffled arguments with myself. And maybe then, maybe just then, I will not stay quiet like my father does when someone asks him if he is tired of life, and maybe just then, I will tell them: you should have asked a long time ago!
It is not the easiest thing: to write words. But then, you realise you have done it alone for so long, why not see it through? Time is my devoted cheerleader. On most days, it is also the only one.