I don’t know what the heck happened to my writing. Every time I put my fingers to the keypads, the words don’t flow out. Not anymore. The consonants and vowels don’t mingle and resonate as they used to. Every passage feels like a worthless piece written halfheartedly, to be force fed to someone later. Am I angry? On whom? Am I frustrated? With what? Am I anxious? But why? Why am I writing? For whom? What’s the point? ...
I look at all these words written by masters, And they depress me more than they inspire. They fill me with self doubts. Would I ever be able to write something even half as good as this? Would someone ever love me even half as much as them? And what’s the point of writing? Everything that was ever to be said has already been said. Everything I ever write from today onwards would be a form of plagiarism. No idea is original. Not a single one. So why even try? Why keep excruciating yourself only to feel like a fraud in the end. ...
लोग पूछते हैं आज कल तेरा संदेशा नहीं आता, क्या करूँ उस बिन लिखूं क्या समझ नहीं आता। कुछ लिख लेता था उसे सोच-सोच कर पहले तो, अब तो उसे याद कर भी दिल में कोई ख़याल नहीं आता। जो लिखने लगता था, कहीं का शुरू कहीं निकल जाता, उसे सामने बैठा, खुद उसका अक्स-इ-बयाँ बन जाता। आज भी उन बेनाम नज़्मों से उसकी खुशबू आती है, पर उन्हें आँखों से लगाने का जज़्बात अब फिलहाल नहीं आता। ...