It’s a wonder that only a few weeks, maybe months ago I was writing, effortlessly. I was, wasn’t I? It wasn’t a far-fetched dream. A figment of my imagination.

After all, if you say so, I will believe that because becoming a writer was always been a dream of mine.

And I did write, I believe. They may not be the most captivating pieces ever. But I wrote. Daily I wrote. Some days I wrote many poems and stories. My pen never showed a sign of fatigue. My love for paper and pen never faded a bit. In fact, it grew more and more with every interaction we had.

Now, I feel they are fed up with me. The pen is not following my mind’s tunes. Thoughts are disappearing into the abyss to the disappointment of my blank page. Words, they are staying aloof. I can hear them sniggering, seeing my blank paper.

I feel like writing was a phase. Now it’s all burned down, leaving no residue behind. The mind is nothing but barren and it whimpers and trembles as the blank pages are filled with no words of relevance but the scratch marks.

I wonder what happened!

This turn of events was unseen. This is unbearable.

When did we become alien to each other!

The unwritten words are causing me nothing but pain. And I have no way of healing until the words start to flow at the tip of the pen once again. I hope that happens!

© Vinitha 2021

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This musing is written in response to the sixtieth edition of Fiction Monday for the word prompt ‘WONDER’ hosted at Reflections by yours truly. Do join in if you have a tale to tell. 

*Pho*Photo by Dom J on Pexels.com