I read an article on Brainpickings some time ago, which contained words of Joesph Brodsky on why it’s necessary to write. In it he says that it’s very important to keep up your writing with your experiences. The more you live, and experience, without writing about any of it, the more experiences keep getting piled up one on each other. Writing is a process, a search, a struggle to make sense of your experiences, as you live them. Without the defining (and probably self-limiting) framework of language, experiences pile up one upon another, mingling into each other, through their still vague, permeable boundaries, and before long, your strongest experiences of some time ago have become strangely undefinable. Even the sand patterns of a big wave don’t last long.
And the farther you move from your writing, the more suspicious you are of your words, and even more of their meaning. Meaning, like a slippery eel, slips away from your mind the moment your words fail you(or vice versa, which has rather been the case with me).
I haven’t written anything(not literally, but it means the same thing more or less) for so long that the devil has got my tongue and goblins my expression. I feel even more a novice to writing than when I started blogging. I remember I was pretty confident in my writing at that time, irrespective of the stuff I wrote(those were exciting times). Now, only incomprehensible monologues comes out. Clarity has been suffocated to death under the crushing weight of images, sounds & words. Chaos reigns supreme. Meaning has slowly evaporated from this bedlam, like uncapped petrol.