Dear,
I am mad at myself, mad at myself for not having held a book for weeks now. It's been almost two weeks since the last time I held a book in my hands and started reading passionately. I was never like this. Books were my escape. Now I escape them, cowardly. I am not a coward, am I?
I am forgetting the words, the words to say, the words to speak, and the words to write. I have fought a battle with and against words. Now I do not know where my words are. I am in a maze of silence. I have no idea what to say and when, what to write and who to write about. Everyone wrote about the poor, everyone wrote about the rich, but no one wrote about writers who have no words to write. I am doing injustice to myself and to the world. I am being unjust to myself. I miss words and the feel of them on the tip of my fingernails, going from my fingers to the screens or the notebooks in my hands.
I miss you. I miss the words. And, above all, I miss the writer in me.
Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.
I am mad at myself, mad at myself for not having held a book for weeks now. It's been almost two weeks since the last time I held a book in my hands and started reading passionately. I was never like this. Books were my escape. Now I escape them, cowardly. I am not a coward, am I?
I am forgetting the words, the words to say, the words to speak, and the words to write. I have fought a battle with and against words. Now I do not know where my words are. I am in a maze of silence. I have no idea what to say and when, what to write and who to write about. Everyone wrote about the poor, everyone wrote about the rich, but no one wrote about writers who have no words to write. I am doing injustice to myself and to the world. I am being unjust to myself. I miss words and the feel of them on the tip of my fingernails, going from my fingers to the screens or the notebooks in my hands.
I miss you. I miss the words. And, above all, I miss the writer in me.
Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.
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