My muse has ditched me. She no longer speaks to me. I no longer talk to her or see her anywhere. It seems that even my desire to touch her somehow has taken a leave. And that is where I must learn to get a little scared.
And perhaps I am getting there as well.
For not so long ago I yearned to stay close to her. My longing to let her stay with me never knew anything but perseverance.
But this complete absence of desire is perturbing— since it indicates a certain acceptance of failure on my part. Maybe I have accepted that I cannot/ will not ever write something that would really matter. Matter in my own eyes, that is. For I think I myself am my own worst critic.
Not very long ago I used to write for myself— for my own pleasure. The muse visited me very often then. But it so seems that this general reluctance to write now has taken her far away from me.
It’s like a vicious cycle, if you know what I mean. I do not feel like writing any longer, hence she does not visit me anymore. That sudden spark, the unavoidable surge of ideas, an almost burning desire to give words to thoughts, or life to those ideas, all of these things seem to have just vanished now.
I write today because I do not want myself to stay lost in the oblivion of uncertainty forever. If I always knew one thing in my life, it was my ability to create sentences. I was never much opinionated, always confused, and always uncertain. If there was anything that was keeping me from reaching the brink of complete insanity, it was that I knew somewhere deep down in my heart, that I wanted to write.
The signs were there, and it was ever so unobservant of me to not see them coming. But they were there. I knew I was getting weaker.
And it hurts me, more than anything else. It hurts me to think that I may not be able to compose two decent lines ever again.
Though it might be a bit arduous to understand for those who do not appreciate the longing to create.
That longing has left me now.
Not much unlike the sudden departure of a loved one,
Unannounced, unwarranted.
My muse has abandoned me.
But then, I wrote this didn’t I?
Perhaps she’s not yet ditched me,
Perhaps she’s just around the corner.
Waiting for me to discover her,
Again.
Wajiha Hyder 