For the lack of better words

Three months it has been since I finished writing my novel, and two months since the last short story. Words simply refuse to pour out of me now. I have treated the symptoms: took care of alcohol deficiency, rubbed colors on paper, read the texts of the greats, and meditated. Nothing seems to work for me anymore, hence this try. I was once told that writing blogs can help with my condition- as in, not being able to write. I smell irony still, but this is the last thing I have left to try. I always told myself that ‘I will start writing blogs from tomorrow.’ But the “Tomorrows” never came and my condition became worse.  

Still, I was under the impression of being able to write something exciting and mesmeric on any given morning. I wish I could carry on living with that lie and had never tried writing this post. I now realize how mundane- for the lack of better (worse?) words- my life is. Maybe that’s why I surrendered myself to fiction in the first place. Am I done? Finished, even before I started?

What even am I writing here? What am I doing?

Ahh! Fork it!