In Continuum.

Oasis



There was a party last night, last night
Cigarettes and empty bottles, empty bottles
Better open up this window, this window
Need some air to clear my head, clear my head

This must be the sixth or seventh time I have visited this page. This must be how a writer's block feels like, because before this line and the one above appeared I've been staring at this little white box for the past couple of hours, on and off. The little cursor just kept blinking towards the top left of the box, begging me to type something - anything.

I started with some gibberish and was deleted after about two minutes into it. That was followed by an attempt to finally start on that little idea of mine in my head, but was later swept under a rug because nothing felt right. It is a common understanding that when it comes to a writer's block, no one should try to force anything out of your head. It's lie squeezing milk out of a rock in the middle of a desert. I'd rather take my time to find a cow somewhere in the wilderness. But seriously speaking, if there is a portal into my head it'd look something like that following.

Imagine yourself, strolling in the Sahara with every excruciating step screaming with pain, because the ground is sixty Degrees Celsius and even with a pair of shoes, your skin is peeling off with every step you take up the sand dune. Nothing all around, just the endless mounts of sand and an occasional shrub here and there, almost mocking your inability to survive in the burning wilderness while there they are, digging deep into the grounds and tapping hidden water chambers. The leaves curve to the wind into a smile, and you extinguish it with a hard stamp on the plant. Cursing, you move on.

Alone in these strange beds
I think that I've traveled enough
Poetry and Aeroplanes
I am tired of waiting for love

Over the crest of the dune, there is a shadow in the distance, sitting at the bottom of the slope. It must be a mirage of some kind, it can't be a man. It just can't be! But there I am, sitting at the bottom of a slope with an opened notebook and a rock on top of it. Through the binding rings, a black pen is stuck and obviously untouched, for not a single word has been written on the blank page at all. You are just happy to see me you managed to say through your dry broken lips, and you asked me if I have any water to spare.

"No, but there is an oasis just over the next dune. It's pretty big, you can't miss it." I replied.

Puzzled, you stared at me wide-eyed, doubting my words. But there it is, just above the crest of the next dune, you can see the top of a coconut tree swaying lazily in the wind. Turning your gaze back at me, you are wondering if I am a mad man of sorts, because there I am in the middle of the desert under the scorching hot sun, with my lips cracked and burning and the skin on my face peeling off here and there like a badly scratched sofa while the oasis just sat above the next rise. You ask me if I am going crazy, if I need some water in the oasis to clear my head.

"No, I'm not crazy." I replied. "Going to be, maybe."

"What?"

"Let me explain something to you. That oasis over there is called 'Writer's Paradise'. That is where writers go to for ideas and inspirations. A sip from the lake and you will hear voices in your head, telling you of the greatest stories ever told. Eat a mouthful of those fruits hanging from trees and it will do the same to you. But no ink will flow in this magical oasis, no papers will bear the words. The only way to write is to get out of the oasis, to where I am now. You cannot write in the 'Writer's Paradise', but only to be inspired. The real writing happens out here in the desert, and my ideas have run out. This is what they call a writer's block, an inspirational dry-spell. I'm not sure if you are following."

"So why don't you go back?"

"I'm tired," I replied. "Awfully tired."

Tend to fall asleep in the fast lane, in the fast lane
Sometimes sinking low in the high life, in the high life
No more happy songs of heartbreak, oh' heartbreak
Or playing white knight misunderstood, misunderstood

The truth is dear readers, heartbreak induces writing. That is the truth if you ask any writers. It is infinitely easier to write when you are in the pits of depression. At least for me, words just tend to flow from the fissures and wounds upon the heart, surging out from the gaps in torrents sometimes. Thus, the entries in March and the end of February is choked with rather melancholic entries, simply because those were rather hard times for me to bear. There was a dilemma between blogging and not blogging. Blogging would make me hate myself for whining so much about the same issue, and not blogging would threaten my own emotional health.

I am wondering if my writing life - for now - is over. With the healing of one's heart, there is an inevitable period of absolute stagnant in one's world of creative writing. At least that's the case for me all the time, when the well of inspirations dry up and you just feel that everything you write is like the dead plant that you just stepped on a few paragraphs ago, or the carcass of a dead lizard in the corner. Maybe the dead tree in the distance just over the other sand dune. Everything you are writing just feels like an object of the desert and not the oasis itself, and like a human being under the merciless sun, you just feel like giving up altogether.

This is probably how you are feeling right now Kenzie, this is what if feels like to not have the drive to blog anymore. Like you said, this might just be a temporary thing, but right now there is the urge to blog but haven't the material or the motivation to do so. Just burning my ass on the scorching hot sun and waiting for an absolution, perhaps. Waiting for something to strike me, or another heartbreak. Who knows?

Alone in these strange streets
I think that I've walked them enough
Poetry and Aeroplanes
I am tired of waiting for love

But for now, not even Arvo Part's Spiegel Im Spiegel will save me now. It must be a sort of disappointment to my reader's, to write rather trashy posts these days. But then again, I'm not going to compromise the quality of my material for the sake of continued readership. It's like a basketball or soccer playing, retiring at the peak of his career. At least people will remember him for his glory days and not his sunset years. I need another heavy drink, or a really painful heartbreak. Or love even, though I'm sure that is not going to happen anytime soon.

I'm just not ready for that, yet. For now, how about a little stroll through the cool waters? Forget about the writer's block, and forget about the dry-spell. Let's take a walk, let's take a walk with me...



Another night I lie awake
In woken dreams of faith and fate
Hope my love don't come too late
Hope my love don't come too late

Alone in these strange streets
I think that I've walked them enough
Poetry and Aeroplanes
I am tired of waiting for love