There are days that you never forgot, not because they are your happi-est, or sadd-est, they have absolutely no relation to the superlative clique. These days just are. Days where you are fine, on the outside to the untrained eye, at the least. But therein the routine of it all, is something so fundamentally wrong that you never know if it will be truly okay, again, ever. Such is the day they didn't come. Who (what), many may ponder. Words, my own words, they didn't come, just blatantly refused to flow from the grey matter of my brain.
This is the day I consciously experienced my first ever writers block, it was a sad, sad day, a bad day. Of rubble and realizations.
Why so? 'There are just words' one not-so-attached would reprimand. To you, yes - to me, oh no! My words have been my most trustworthy companions, bearers to my deepest pains, accomplices to my darkest atrocities. Without them I am not me. If my name, address and lineage bear the mundane-st of my identities, my words bear my most honest. They hold within them the essence of what life has given me and what I have thrust-ed back at it. They make me - in my truest, deadliest and nudest form.
So, sequentially the day even they chose to desert me was not an ordinary one, by far not even a natural one. I had dealt with loss or so I thought. The loss of things, places, people and even body parts (cholecystectomy); then why even now does this particular taking away jut out so decisively in the midst of my memoirs?
I have pondered over the answer for a long time now, and after a multitude of relevant and far fetched experiences concluded that it is because I not even in the worst philandering of my imagination ever construed a circumstance so obscene, so absurd. To me I was my words and my words were me and that day: I failed me.
Man trusts no one more than himself, he values no one more. The bond we have with ourselves is so primitive and innate, it is beyond us to think that there could be time a even we shall not support us. The jargon flows out of me now, nonsensical as it may be, but that ill fated day it ceased. I ceased. My unadulterated pride in the power I had over my words shattered. A promise broke that day - a trust was desecrated.
I learnt that day that even I could not to be relied on. Because as primitive as was the control over my grey matter as tangible was the limitations it exercised. I know that now, but how do you explain this to a thirteen year old wanting to take over the world armed with nothing but her words? The fact is: you don't. You let the one thing that she thinks is truly hers, deceive her as unabashedly as my words did that day, and came back the next to be lulled into phrases and pruned into prose. Why?
So the next time a thing, or a place or a person, even a body part deserts her, she knows. Truly and wholly.