Writing comes from trying evenings and wistful times spend hiding under a sheet. It comes from bitter arguments and stony silences.
The dark patches in the blanket that you weave and the frayed edges that unravel leave you feeling like a bus ran over you, but you atleast you have something to write about.
I don’t do too well with happy writing. I can’t write about victory or triumph or candy pink love. I can’t get myself to put together a story that ends perfectly where people meet, their careers are on track, they’ve been in long, beautiful relationships that culminate into marriage and babies and houses with lawns.
My writing a while ago came from the fact that you are somewhere, in a labyrinth if you shall, looking for answers and similar things all while maintaining a distance with a beanpole. The space where you have pitched a tent, where you’re hiding is so far that from here it’s a speck. We tried calling out to you from atop a tree but our hoarse voices were just reminders of how far you are and how stranded we felt.
We tried waving flags at you but they were red and torn and probably not befitting your tastes anyway.
Writing comes from the lack of hope. It is often the belief that scribbling about things will do something towards dispelling the helpless feeling at the bottom of your churning stomach.

I dropped my inspiration while walking down a warm street, getting jostled by people who seemed to do it on purpose. It just fell from between my hands and rolled around on the ground, like a bad penny. It finally went through a crack in the street, falling down into a dark endless space.

As the sun rose and hung up right above me, I stood there for a while questioning myself. People walked by, looking like nothing had changed. And it hadn’t for them. But in my head things were different. Suddenly, I felt like someone had carved out a part of my insides and what remained was a bleeding, pulsating void.

My inspiration left me, in an unceremonious fashion and left me to figure out the rest. Had I crawled around on all fours and shouted into the bottomless pit, I knew it wouldn’t come back. I knew it was gone.

I turned my back on a closed chapter and walked away. I think I must have looked normal but I felt a knot forming in my chest. It’s still there. It will continue to exist, becoming tighter and more complicated, until I find what I lost.