I have not been feeling too good about writing. I have a few ideas but I need an opening. It’s like, I am standing on this side of the wall and trying to break it. And whenever I feel I have an opening, it turns out to be a small chip falling off the old wall.

The hammering hasn’t helped. Though it has made the wall softer and sometimes I see a light emanating from the other side. It’s enough to tell me that the other side is illuminated. It’s enough to make this effort worthwhile. But if I hammer anymore, push the wall any further, the bricks will fall on the source of light and I don’t want that. The wall has to crumble into sand, the wall has to burn down, the wall has to evaporate for all I know. But the broken pieces of this wall will not hurt me or the source of light. And all I can do now is to turn my back to the wall, sit down, lean my back against the wall and cry my heart out, pray, and throw the hammer away.

Writing and loving are so akin to each other. Both need an opening, a path, small destinations, but a regular, ongoing journey. Sometimes, you need one perfect line. And sometimes any opening does it. A lost, angry, foolish breakdown of an opening does it. An opening guilty of a prolonged silence does it. Sometimes, you need all your substance with to push that sexiness into an opening. Sometimes, no substance, only a shadow of sexiness does it. Sometimes, the verbose words have it in them to hammer an opening. Some other times, a smart paper-thin line does it.

But you got to give it to me now. If I can write so much about not having an opening then I might write the opening as well by now! But as I said, Writing and loving are so akin to each other or they are becoming like that in my life. I have had too many unsavory chips falling down these walls. And I have been mistaking them for an opening. But they only lead me to things undone, journeys unfinished. I guess I will keep guessing my way to the right opening…


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