Allow Me This.

It feels like someone decided to fasten a big huge padlock on my brain cells that blocks any ideas from morphing into words. Writing the previous sentence alone took me half an hour and I’m still not happy. It’s like the ideas are there but the awords are stubbornly clinging for dear life in that mysterious part of my brain which isn’t activated. That’s what writer’s block feels like. And I missed my deadline. And I have no idea what’s gonna happen to me. And my abdomen still hurts. And I still can’t perform the simplest daily routine without feeling that pinch and finally collapsing into bed in exhaustion. And this is frustrating. And I am depressed. And I love all of you who are doing whatever you can to make me feel as comfortable and as happy as I can be. But I am wallowing in selfish self-pity. Allow me that, for having to stay at home and in bed for the better part of Syawal and even now, almost two weeks later. Trust me, it’s not as glorious as it seems. It’s suffocating. And demotivating. And uninspiring. And it causes writer’s block. And if you, the one who is waiting for this block to disappear, are reading this, I’m sorry.