A few months ago, I began to write, after a break of many years. I was prolific. Would pen my thoughts, easily, coherently and quickly. Words flowed like honey on my Note. My writing was intense, it was coming from deep inside me. Personal at times, reflective on some days, ‘preachy’ on occasions….. but always me. There was no pretense, no mask, no cover. I wrote about friends, I wrote about relations, about inspirations or just observations on human society. Sometimes my writing gave a sense of unease inside me, of a pain, of an ache. Friends reached out to me to ask if all was well.

And then it all stopped. There was a deafening silence in my mind. The words would just not come out. It was as if something inside me had become empty. The confusion in my mind, the restlessness, the pain, was gone. And with it, the words.

I do not know what the pain was. What caused the restlessness? What inspired the words ? I don’t know whether I am happier without the pain and confusion? Or with the fire inside me that brought out beautiful words on paper ?

I continue to seek answers to these questions, like so many more. The day I find them all, maybe my writer’s block will disappear and I may write my greatest piece. Or I might discover that I was never a writer at all, this was just a dream. I don’t know. Till then, All is well. All is well.