It’s been quite a long time since I willed myself to write, it was never a necessity. It still is not. But going back at three in the morning regularly, waking the neighbourhood early each day, getting into a cold tomb like room and then staring at the walls for an hour before sleep courts me, I felt the need to write.
With a pleasant feeling of jarring pain, I am just realising how tough it is to find the words. I always thought the words would be there inside me, waiting for me to get it down on paper. Not any more, not unless I consciously try, that is.
Words are what I make a living from nowadays, but what I really want to write, it just died inside me. Lucky for me that I am a firm believer in the legend of the phoenix – that bird who always rises from its ashes. Take a deep breath and you can still smell the sweet aroma of ashes on me.
I am on a journey of self-rediscovery – of a past, which I thought I might never get back. Accompany me, on those lines, on my long journey of discovery and of course the burial that has to inevitably come at the end of it…