Have you ever had this feeling, that you want to tell the world about something but nothing comes out?
Or you are not even sure what that “something” is all about?
Have you ever sat in front of the computer and typed away, without knowing what it was that you were typing?
I realise, now, that the best stuff I have ever written, outside of school, were conceived during the times when I was at my lowest, my most anguished. Does happiness chase away the drive to be creative? Does contentment lull you into a false sense of security, such that important issues flit by you without you lifting an eyebrow?
I used to think that I was a good writer. Back in primary school, my compositions were consistently sent to the newspapers for publication. In secondary school, I discovered English Literature and was one of the few who always had an A grade scrawled on my papers. In junior college, I would get unhappy if my Literature essays dipped below 70% while remaining blas?© about my outrageous Mathematics C grades. In university, I took pride in my articles and papers, especially those written in my Journalism class.
And look at me now.
Unable to put my thoughts together and articulate them.
How do I get my groove back?