The Haze is what I happily label as a writer’s doom. It is a writer’s block drawn out too long, a creative standstill which would drive anyone insane. And the thought of trying to escape this haze becomes a far cry when the lethargic state of being becomes a comfort zone for one’s never-ending thoughts. Haven’t we all gone through those dreaded drawn-out days where time refuses to pass? The sheer frustration we feel towards ourselves might as well make us tear our hair out.
We have all gone through a dull patch in our creative endeavors where we fumble at the loss of inspiration at first, and then at our lack of productivity. During the four months that passed between the freedom from school and the start of college I found myself DIY-ing old jeans into a bag one day and recreating a sketch from Pinterest the next. Except a thousand hours would pass between one semi-productive day and the other.
The lack of inspiration lets all thoughts turn inward and I found myself wondering- What if I have settled into this rhythm of being in a haze so much that I collapse under all expectations of regular functioning? I question what I am capable of and use sleep as a defense mechanism, hoping that my dreams will light a spark in a barren field. I convince myself I am the only one who can’t get past this dull phase and find myself giving up repeatedly, only to run back to it again and again.
I fear the future with the life in me, for I’m afraid of being stuck at ordinary.
I clench my teeth at imperfections and yell defeat when they can’t be overcome.
I build a mansion of dreams in my head and cry swiftly, pronouncing them dead.
I wrote these lines while trying to understand what this mind-boggling feeling was that I faced: was I facing this haze as a writer or as a human? I would be consumed by my inability to write and create rather than focusing on pushing myself more, and I let my reality revolve around my thoughts which vanished soon after they appeared, leaving me in an endless conundrum. If only there was a secret fairy godmother for all of us stuck in the writer’s seat, sitting in front of screens till way past midnight, deciding our worth based on word counts. But one day, all the writers in us will be struck by majestic ideas. Time will fly as the pages do, and we’ll have transformed into our own guardian angels- feeling alive as the words take shape.
And till then, we keep trying.