Often it is like this. you keep your page open. you have a pen ready. but you simply sit staring at the blankness before you. your mind seems to reflect the page. you know that you have the words hidden deep within you. words that are to pour out in a flood, rapidly filling up the whiteness before you with small rounded characters loaded with meanings. you keep staring and the blankness stares back at you. you do not know where to look for the small trigger that can unleash the cataclysm. you stare at the trees with the spread out branches drying out in the sun. you stare at the tiny bird that seems to be busy preening itself. not even a song to inspire! you stare at the open ended street, where life seems to go on in all its midday idleness. the tarmacadam sheens in a mirage of dry heated illusion. you end up staring at your navel, trying to dig out the self absorbed thoughts.
but nothing seems to catalyze.
what is this block that seems to dam you within? what is it that sets you desperately seeking a switch to unleash?
with all the apathetic stillness of a bird on a still afternoon bough, i end this note. let me simply BE.
