Undoing Writer's Block.

Where was my God? I was alone and there was no God near. I couldn't write. There was only a vast void, which seemed impossible to cross. I always believed that when I reach in a state of communion with God, I write. And that was what I lacked; the meeting, the communion, the nearness; the divine sharing. God was the cause of all my writings and is; though I believe it too that God never causes anything, but allows things to happen. I know. As Richard Bach says in "Illusions", his novel, we are the ones to decide what our life should be. In the process of my writing, God becomes the fulfilling experience of my efforts of communion with that Higher Power, thus the cause. I am talking about the impetus, something that I know as true, but can't explain.

Was that a writer's block that I had these recent days, blocking me from writing anything? I don't know. Though I had done thorough studies on methods of identifi cation and solution for the writer's block, I found everything, every learned knowledge, useless. I was finally resting myself on the same steps of impetus, what I always identified as the communion with God.

There is always a second chance--a voice in my mind—I don't know, when and where this voice came into my mind. Also, I had doubts on its credibility, though it seems to be true. This sentence always haunted me and this voice always peeped through thousands of other voices, and clamours in my head; I mean in my mind. There is always a second chance!

How do I come to writing this time? Is this my second chance? It is not the word 'second'--that numerical exactness-- that matters, but it is the opportunity in a time of despair that the voice conveys. This second chance, I realised that, was from God. In India, you don't have any limit to the number of Gods, or that limit is too high somewhere. The God that stretched a link to me this time, the communion that I have experienced, is perhaps Saraswathi, from the muse, the Goddess of letters and art, through a nonsensical futility; love. The love that is nonsensical and futile, as I believed it was, can be called infatuation. The infatuation I felt towards a girl, an elegant, tall, good looking girl, who I had seen, just before a few days for the first time, in my college, is what my hint is about.

She helped me once, and that was the only thing I knew about her, except her face and stature. I was holding a glass for filling water in front of the drinking water tap, in the canteen. It was crowded. She was the one before me. After taking water for herself, she opened the tap again, for me. And that was that; she helped. There are reasons to identify that, what I felt was a simple infatuation. She was not my classmate, not my neighbour, and not someone who is known to me. But all of a sudden I have started liking her and started trying vainly to picture her face in my mind. It is a truth that for someone to be your partner, the first thing you need is to know that person well. But here in this case there is no such thing happened and so it can be concluded that it is only a streak of lightning, which in other words can be identified as 'infatuation'. She was one of those many beautiful faces which attracted me. I knew that. She was just a passing mist.

Every infatuation consists within itself endless possibilities for a transformation of feelings into a true, and divine love, I believe so. But within me all those possibilities are deactivated by some of the surrounding factors. The first factor is that in Kerala, the word "love" is something to be used carefully. Most of the people take it as an obscene word in its common use.

The second factor is the unfamiliarity existing between the girl and me. The third factor is the awareness of lacks that I have. The lack of a job, lack of money, lack of a social status, lack of a luxury bike, and so on. After all, I am still a student.

Every time, if something is repressed, it will suppress the possibility of its erasure . That is, when some feeling is suppressed, it finds an expression through some other way, sometimes through art, or sometimes through different social behaviours, etc. And thus the possibility of the death of the suppressed feeling will descend. It will take a birth in another form, and in another medium. I can't forget to express my courtesy to Sigmund Freud here.

Thus the meaning is simply this: this time, the impetus or the wind, which stirred the ripples in my mind, a god that is, is nothing but my infatuation or the suppressed love; a deluge that broke the occult wall of my 'writer's block'.