Shrug Hiatus

          It’s been a while since I have written anything.  Be it trivial or something relevant, I have been on a hiatus in writing.  There are days where the drive to compose something surges from my subconscious faculties.  I prepare myself for a back-breaking ordeal of scribbling whatever is being carried by the stream of my thoughts.  I put aside a pen and something to scribble on.  I outline a topic.  And as I am about to begin, laziness shoots it down and all the things that I’ve prepared free falls into oblivion.  That has been the tribulation that I have not yet conquered.

            Laziness has its way of clambering down your veins, tie you down your bed and hold you captive.  You try to free yourself, but even that thought is slowly obliterated into specks of unidentifiable shards.  You slowly enter a daze.  Then spiral into a desultory fantasy.  I constantly try to battle the demons of sloth.  But usually ends up laying flat on my bed mesmerized by its seductive offers.  I’m in a hopeless war.  Left only with a peeping faint light of self-belief: I am a decent writer and if I write, I will become good at it.  And perhaps I might just.

            Wounded, freshly-scarred, I grab hold the ropes of silenced desires.  I hang precariously on the edges of no-return.  I muster my strength, immerse in the pains and labors of self-criticisms, and try to slowly ascend my hanging whereabouts one pull at a time.  I gather the words that I have buried 6-feet under, resuscitate them with desperate exhalations.  I try to breathe life back into the system of my mummified creativity.  I know it’s alive.  And I know it’s waiting.

            I have my goal seared into my mind: resume writing and do not let your talents go to waste.  I have sketched the blueprint of its resurrection.  All I have to do now is to implement the plans.  I have fed my own demons with surrender and hopelessness.  It’s due time I starve it to death by feeding my self-belief.  I am a writer.  All I have to do is write.