Clutching at smoke.

Today, I feel like I am flailing. Clutching at smoke. Words fly by, not seeping down, from brain to finger to page. Sentences follow their own, illogical, nonsensical trajectory, no longer willing to succumb to me.

A blank page, for me, is the greatest inspiration. But, again, it is also one of my greatest horrors. The ever-looming threat of a burnout. What will I do when words no longer flow through my fingers as they have always? It’s the only thing I know that I am good at.

AB DeVilliers, the brilliant, generation-defining batsman retired from international cricket a few months ago. Reason? Burnout. Yes, he could no longer perform because it was too much for him. He reflected. And he took a step back. Forever.

He’ll be fondly remembered as one of the most devastating batsmen to have ever graced the pitch.

But to get burnt out even before your writing career has properly started? It’s like a great, wet brick has settled somewhere deep inside your stomach, refusing to let go. The constant nagging sensation of a horror — the permanent writer’s block.

I am flailing. But I am still breathing. There are some words, some of them here, on this page. As long as there are some words, they can still be whipped to shape.

As long as there are words, the world is a better place.

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