i wonder why there is nothing to write about any longer? where have i got stuck? i could write and write, there was so much that needed pondering over. that needed to be put in words. where has all that gone?
i know i cant do much beyond writing. i am not skilled at anthing. i look at people around me- a talented bunch. some are good at imagining or visualising as it is called these days, some are good at selling things off, some are good at pontificatng and manking others feel guilty and do the work for them i wonder on seeing these people. i used to often think that i would be this silent person, i will rarely speak and when, once in a while i would open my mout only great words shall fall. but i found myself to be too gregarious to hold still and be silent.
then once i thought i will become a fashion designer. i kept a notebook and copied patterns to it but eventually grasped that anywhere that i had to mark copying would not work, i would need originality to sustain.
if this is what is so imperative for the self to sustain than why is it so difficult to figure out what to be or not to be?