Here is a confession: the writer in me is dying. Now more than ever I have to brute-force my way through the words just to get a few of them down on paper.
I no longer find meaning in what I write. And more worryingly perhaps, I no longer find the desire to. I could write something silly and not care.
There. Now you know my words don’t bear much truth in them. There’s no use believing in them any longer. I guess for all you monks out there this might come as a surprise or disappointment – for all the believers who have stood by these words or acknowledged their wisdom you might now be taking a cold hard look at yourselves and wondering how you’ve wasted all this time.
Well I’m here to share this disappointment with you. I’m here to tell you that I too indulged in their wisdom. I too chose to voraciously believe in them. I too chose to listen to them.
But now, it doesn’t seem like they’re listening to me. No, the dust has settled and the smoke has dissipated. The clouds don’t carry much rain in them anymore. We are heading for the dry, dry season. The land is dying. There are cracks left everywhere. And I am at the center of it all, watching it crumble down before my eyes.
I guess it’s true you can’t win them all. You can’t stay a winner your whole life. Someone or something is bound to knock you off your perch. But the problem is when you’ve gotten used to it for so long you forget it can be taken away from you. You forget how it feels like to live without it. And that takes radical adjustments and a change of perspective.
The words are coming down but I still can’t nail them correctly. It’s like they’re brewing in the pot but the stew isn’t coming out right. I can see them cooking in front of me but they don’t taste the same. They were once pure and golden. They were once transparent and honest. They were once magical and transcendent. But now they are like us; they are foul and profane and obscene and corrupt. They are food for vultures. They are rotten decaying corpses.
Well, maybe I’ve been too hard on them. Maybe I’ve come down too hard on the thing that made me a winner once. Maybe it’s just me – maybe I was the one getting bitten and infected by the snake. But now that the poison’s dried out in my veins and I sit here still trying to unlock the door I guess we’ll never truly know for sure.
Until we hear the crack and see through the other side. Until then, if that moment were to ever come, I’ll just have to keep forcing my way through the page.