You think if you stare at a blank page long enough, the words will come to you? Mostly, they don’t.
With time I have realised, writing is the only way for me to stay sane. My friend said the above quote by Albert Camus made perfect sense for me. Such a beautiful metaphor, isn’t it? The last couple of years haven’t been the best. And they have felt like a long-drawn winter. I feel like I’m buried under all this ice, scratching the surface every now and then, getting my head above only to drown back in when it snows. I often wonder how long this will go on. When the ground will be underneath my feet. When I will be able to walk and jump and fly. When this will be so distant, it will be a memory in the past. And there are no answers.
It’s a strange time. Time when the mind wanders. Time when you’re waiting to take the next big step. Time filled with confusion, instability, anxiety, restlessness. Time when you’re expected to be steady as a rock but you feel as fleeting as a pebble.
It’s a stranger time. Time when you probably have over a thousand contacts in your phonebook and not one person you can call.
So I write. I write about how cold it’s been, how putting on layers hasn’t made my feet any warmer. And how much I can’t wait for this dreadful winter to end.
Do I really have an invincible summer in me? Can I really shake off this gloom? And hop about while the birds chirp? It’s not making any sense to me right now. But I have to believe it. Especially because at least one person believes it’s true. I want to fight back. I want to change this situation. For the better. I want it to be brighter than sunshine. Are you feeling it?
Do you think it is time for summer? Tell me about your winter. I’m all ears.