Without the delicious delusions of greatness around me, I feel turgid and lifeless. Floating like a day-old carcass in the moment, I find myself wasting time simply wanting to do something. I want to write yet no words appear in my mind. At least none that make a coherent statement.

I am proud of what I know. I have always been. But the guilt of my ignorance is far stronger. It deprives me the courage convictions can offer. I am constantly haunted by doubts. I doubt myself and my writing. I doubt the veracity of my own statements. It drives me up the wall. I wonder if the truth I see is only an illusion that my limitations create to hide themselves in. That lingering thought makes me hesitate. It makes me apologetic in my presentation. I do not want to unleash upon the world what I don't know. I do not want to propagate uncertainty if I can.

Every writer should try and uphold truth through this work. Truth, and freedom. I am too indecisive and confused to stand by either. It makes me want to throw away my pen and never attempt to write again. I feel defeated. Even before the battle has begun. Even before it has been fought.

It isn't the fact but the fantasy that kills me. My mind is my own enemy.

I love this warm glow of martyrdom I feel. To live as a promise that was never born is heady than to attempt anything real and prove myself incapable of it. I see that I am despicable beyond words.

I am a romantic at heart. I want to believe I write for the greater good. That I have a noble purpose. That my writing aims to fulfill some higher need within me. The truth is, I write because I am afraid.

I am afraid that if I do not write I will never be able to speak to you. To anyone in this world. The silence that sorrounds me from birth will make a neat little coffin for me. While I'm still alive. My soul will be mummified within, with me. All those thoughts that rise in mind, but never given voice to, will eventually start to fill up every single molecule in my body, choking me, pushing air out of my lungs, squeezing my heart in a vice-like grip, stopping it. I will die instantly, bleeding from all my bodily orifices, and people will look at my lifeless body on the floor, and the flowing blood streams. They will stare at each other in disbelief and exclaim, 'Geez, he died because he didn't write!” Then then will walk back to where ever it was that they were before I died, and life will go on. For them. I will be dead. Another anonymous victim of his passion. Pushed into oblivion before the body loses its heat.

I see that is exactly what will happen. I can already feel myself bloated up. The whole day I had this feeling of being inflated by some mysterious power. Slowly, but surely. If I don't write now, my head will explode into a million little pieces of red, white, and colour-less gooey stuff that will stick to the walls and slowly slide on to the floor. Blood will gush out of my headless neck like from a broken faucet. Blood is sticky, you know. It isn't just red. It's black too. Actually, I think it's blackish red. Or reddish black. I must check with someone. One day when I want to write a murder mystery, I should be able to specifically mention the color of blood that would be a central part of the whole story.

Ok. I will now go and lie down. Giving in to my destiny seems easy. Either an idea will strike me and I will be resurrected from this state of sleep walking. Or my rabid thoughts will keep growing inside of me like cancer or something and inflate my body so much that I will start gushing blood from my mouth, nose and ears. And from other orifices in my body. Till, my body is drained of all life and lies limp in indifference to whatever comes next. Freedom from responsibillity is death. Actually, when one thinks about it, both are equally pleasurable acts. Or painful punishments. Depends on how one looks at it, isn't it?