My empty head...

Sometimes I think there is a pot of ink inside my head, which diminishes drop by drop with every word that I wrote. And if I use that pot of ink to write anything that cross my mind would that leave me with an empty head….   

I’m having trouble remembering how to relax—how to fade out when my life gets a little too intense. Because that’s what I had realized: writing is and always been an escapism for me. If I am unable to write, how am i to escape? Where can my mind rest?

And reading other people’s work will help for a while. How long will my subconscious be satisfied by these silly distractions? I will end up waking up in  cold sweats, haunted by never ending nightmares?. 

I guess I will therapeutically heal myself  by reading more materials. I finished reading two books in a week: The Perks of Being a Wallflower (heart-wrenching), and All Quiet on the Western Front (even more heart-wrenching). Instead of my morning routine of writing, I read. I read and I read and I read, hoping that the creative inspirations of others might inspire something in me. So far, it is still at zero.

Slow or lack interest in writing is a natural repercussion of lack of reading. Last year I read so much less than I did in prior years.  And it’s been a while since anything stirred me. Nothing floods the blogosphere with entries more than broken hearts.

Yes you can quote me on that.