Sweet and sour

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Sweet and sour

Sweet and sour.

About the irony and duality of life.

I have lost it.

No, don't misquote me. I am perfectly fine mentally, I think.

But I have lost the touch I once had. I have lost my ability to pen my thoughts on paper. On anything at all. Why has this happened? Do you know the cure? How will then I cure myself of the pain I have been afflicted with or the scars that have been engraved on my heart?

What then will I make of myself? What then will I console myself with? I have lost count of things I had held onto and had to let go of cos of a reason or the other. I held poetry close to my dear bosom. Believe me, I still do. But I don't pen words anymore. Not that frequently. And it's not that I don't bleed. Or maybe it's cos I don't read anymore.

I can't start and finish. I always find myself hanging, begging it to let me off and then I jump to the next option. But then my conscience begins to eat me up, layers by layers. So I go back and I do a little bit of it and abandon it again. This goes on and on and on until I'm done. Until I let go of it but this time, it's done. A full project.

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