Pseudo Writer

It's 3:30 a.m. You are sitting in front of your laptop. Trying to complete some project that you cannot focus on. You are reminiscing about easier times. You realise it's getting sad, so you decide to change the vibe. You go into the kitchen, play some old party songs and start making Maggi while doing a horrible yet honest dance. You have one of the best times you have had in a while. But when the voices subside and the Maggi is over, you realise that the fan above you is way too loud. It is the only barrier between you and absolute silence.  And not for the first time do you feel that hollowness. That something is missing. That all it will take is a weak gush of wind for everything to crumble. The road outside is well lit. The streetlamps are colouring the ground yellow. Moonlight is filling up the corners that streetlamps cannot reach. This series of spotlights; so bright, yet so thirsty. Searching for someone. On an empty stage. And it seems perfect. Every bit of it. It is ...

And here I am. This blank screen with a blinking cursor. Asking myself, what will you write now? And I don't know. I can write for everything and everyone, and I can shout at anyone who thinks I can't. But here I am, playing a game of stare with the flickering cursor and losing. So how do I shout at myself? I had heard what grief gives you. It was supposed to give you more, wasn't it? More to miss someone?  More to love someone? More to think about?  More to write about? If grief was nothing but love persevering, then where is it? And where am I? If it is all I can think about, then why can't I pen it down? Why is it easier  to channel someone else's grief? Why is it that all of me is not in me, and parts of others are most of me?