I don’t write often these days. Not for the lack of will but for the lack of inspiration. Inspiration, it seems, is lost on me. All these years, I have been looking for things to inspire me, and I have been lucky to find some things which did. But those are rare instances. We, writers, are often associated with the tag of being free spirits. How ironical; we are anything but that.
A writer doesn’t write because he is free; rather writing itself is his quest for freedom. Most of my better content has come through during the times of distress, heartbreaks and pain. Unfortunately, in spite of my reluctance to admit it, that’s where great literature mostly come from. Some of the greatest writers throughout history have been drunkards, paupers, clerks and worse. If you are wondering, many of them got their due credits only in death. And that is the case with a great number of artists. That tells you something. I have a rather simple explanation. Literature, or rather art, comes only if you dig deep enough inside yourself. And how can you dig deep enough without tearing the ground where you make the hole?
Perhaps that is why it’s easy to become a writer, musician or painter. Transcending the average though takes sacrifice, and most people can’t even begin to comprehend that. Perhaps that’s why it’s difficult, even impossible for most, to become an artist.