Its been ages since i wrote. Wrote stuff that really mattered to me, my words have lost their muse - that was long back, over three years now, but i never believed i would reach a time when id write this - i just cant seem to write what i feel. why do words fail a person who lives by them and with them? literally? there was a time when words would flow uninhibited like they always lived within and just had to be written, but not anymore "where is all your writing" they ask me and i have nothing to say, i have the time the resources the inspiration but not the words! my muse walked out of me a long while ago and ever since i have dreamt of my muse every night, asked myself what went wrong, i helplessly attempt and associate myself with the shadows and roots of the muse hoping I'd catch a few glimpses of it. i walk through old roads hoping the street corner might be the place, get drenched in an obscure rain hoping a drop would be familiar, I helplessly browse through old letters, mails, posts, hoping somewhere there i would find a point of ignition, but no! oblivion is all that comes from the vain exercise. I miss my words, i miss my muse, At the end of it all i do is chant a hymn of borrowed words from a distant past spent with my muse and heave a sigh and go to bed, only to be haunted by words and the lack of them. in the background i can almost hear an old poet welcoming words just come to his mindscape, i'm awed, i'm jealous, i'm tired, but i wait.
