This article is a part of the series 'Only Story I Know'. You can check out its previous episodes here: Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Last Shot

Writer’s block.

It took me 3 days to write these two words. Why? I don’t know, I guess. But you know what, I don’t even care anymore. So, I do have a writer’s block. I haven’t written anything in over 3 months and it sucks and I don’t know what to do with it anymore. I just don’t. So, what? I mean, everybody goes through it, right? Someday you just snap out of it. Inspiration strikes and then, it’s all great again. Words make their way to your keyboard to your laptop and you’re in the groove and it’s all okay. Right? But it didn't.

I waited and waited and waited. And it’s not like I didn’t write anything. I took every possible suggestion. I tried not to think about it and focus my attention on something else the whole day until 11 pm which was my writing time. I tried to write my way out of the block. I tried reading stories from different genres and went back and forth on writing what I felt about them. And then, I decided to tell you guys that every single word written in this paragraph until now is a lie. I didn’t try to get out of my writer’s block, not at all. I tried to make myself believe that I was but I really wasn’t. I fed the monster and I let it consume me. I stopped. Reading. Writing. Simply put, everything I loved.

On the other hand, I read about everything I had absolutely no interest in. I’d like to proudly tell you that I’m up-to-date with all the gossip Bollywood can offer. I know which perfume goes with your skin type. I know which skin care products are meant for the day, the night, the visible acne scars, the invisible acne scars, the bright skin, the dusky skin, and the worst of them all, the Indian skin.

I also know what it’s like to feel defeated, to feel conned by the only dream you’ve had since you weren’t even a teenager, to feel lonely as fuck, and to see everything you ever planned slip right out of your hands. It hurts to know that every single thought you have can have a voice but you just don’t want to give it one. It hurts to know that you could pick up your pen any time and just start but you've even stopped carrying one. Because you don’t want to look at a blank paper, an empty Word screen, and lose all hope. Because you don’t want to lie. Because you can’t write the truth.

I’ve played the story which led to it over a hundred times in my head, have told it tens of times to my closest of friends, but have never been able to write it. There were literally tons of incidents that led to it, like when a close one told me that nobody wanted to hear my stories, no matter how funny they were because, to be honest, they didn’t know any of the people in it and weren’t interested in their lives. But the one that set things into motion was my first, most invalid criticism of all time.

I don’t think you can write.

And just like that, stories stopped meaning anything to me.

For months, there has been a part screaming inside me to just do something about it but I can’t bring myself to it. I don’t believe in myself anymore and I have no idea when I’ll be able to. Through the years, I’ve always told my friends that your life cannot revolve around a single negative sentiment but now mine does. And it’s a loop I can’t get out of. So, this piece is a step towards an advice I should’ve taken months ago.

Yes, it does matter that I can’t write, but it’s the only thing I know. I know no other way of expressing my guilt, my sorrows, my happiness, and my hopes. If I chose this struggle once, I will continue to choose it every day. Because the only story I know about myself is that I don’t know it at all. And maybe I never will. But this, I do.