I used to love writing. I enjoyed it. I was told I had the knack for it. You’re a natural, they said.
Expressing ideas and emotions on white space wasn’t hard. Writing was an avenue for suppressed feelings, which I had to let out occasionally – err, most of the time. Writing was bliss. Words just effortlessly fall into place. I could finish an essay in just an hour or two. Easy breezy.
I used to love writing.
Until, I lost interest.
My job requires too many tasks on management and logistics. Not enough writing tasks as I had wanted. It isn’t entirely part of the job description I was told. I had less time for writing or reading.
Rust. I feel my brain rusting, slowly biting the inside of my skull. Words are starting to disappear. I can’t even construct a sentence that doesn’t seem report-ish.
My writing isn’t as fluent as it used to be. I used to effortlessly fill the blank spaces of the paper with black ink. I had it. But I was told I lost it. I don’t know if it’s still there.
I’m stuck. Is this writer’s block? Am I on a dead end?
I need to figure this out.
It was even difficult to finish this short post.