This short prose piece is about ‘ Writer’s Mental Block”. Below is part of e-mail by Sophia Chawala.

” I also attached a short prose piece that is about a mind-block I had when I was trying to write. It was an Impromptu assignment I had once. I kept writing the same lines over and over again until I started describing my writers block.” 

Strange paradise (o_0??)

I have nothing to write about, I have nothing to write about…why do I have absolutely nothing to write about? The weather, so cloudy, humid and unclear, is interfering with work. I feel like a broken toy, not able to be fixed. Too bad all it can say is that same exact line, over and over again.

I have nothing to write about. Why won’t this line, this block go away? Why does it linger and dwell in my head? Every attempted step I make to move up always gets knocked down by boulders; I am falling into never ending confusion. Confusion… why confusion? The word blocks my mouth in uttering “why’s” all the time. Desperately, I try to break free from this tight knot that is holding me down from the light of intelligence.

I have nothing to write about. Damn. Just hearing one word strangles my throat and bangs violently against me like a church bell just inches away from my delicate ears. Five tons drag me down from success and freedom and that is just what I do not understand. Surrounded by circles and circles of people, I struggle to swim out of that sea and be alone on my own island, but it’s too opaque to see where I am going.

Faceless ideas without end are too afraid to show their face behind their disguises.  Come out and show me a way—take me onward to where I feel free from that crowded sea to the sharp, clear waters shining intensely its brightness. I wish to ride away on the gentle breeze, to feel that soothing sense of blank, yellow plains that sway with passion with the winds. Yes—I can see so clearly in this magical place. The pleasant weather fills the air with the shining sun, showing nature’s true face—and a beautiful look it is. The trees, standing tall and healthy with its lush, green bushes, stare proudly outward towards the heavy mountains. Sky, blue, clear sky, sends me going weightless and in never-ending ecstasy. One day, I will fly in those skies. One day, I’ll stand tall like the trees and the mountains. One day I’ll shine like the mighty ball of fire, the sun. One day—one day is what I wish for. My wish is to elude this turmoil and away to the place I love…my nature, my strange paradise.

But here I sit with a paper and pen before me, urging my right hand to work. What a shame that I am thousands of miles away from paradise. Here I drown in, not clear, but dark ragging seas. Here I suffer, for my trees are being chopped by greedy hands. Here I cry with misery, like the sky weeping rains of gloominess. Here I sit, surrounded by a sea of people, lost in the abyss, because I have nothing to write about.

Sophia Chawala