I’m back! Not necessarily back with a bang, but back at least. My impromptu eid hiatus stretched itself a little too widely and before I knew it, time slipped out of my hands like a slimy, slippery eel. To be honest though, I’m pushing myself to write this because my mind still feels stretched between too many compartments.
There are days when you want to do nothing but write. Shut the windows to all noise and distractions, human and digital alike, and simply dive into the rippling corners of your being. It matters not if the words come easy, or not at all. The simple act of putting pen to paper is mediation enough, the click-clack of your fingers on the keyboard an old comforting song which allows you to bask, celebrate, regret or, if you’re lucky, make sense of the madness churning within.
But then there are days when you don’t so much as want to look at a piece of paper. Hours when the blank page terrifies you so much, you run away and hide yourself in the solace of words written by somebody else. Sometimes this interval, separation from the craft you love is as crucial as the craft itself.
It reminds you of both, the good times and the bad. Makes you relive and appreciate the joy as well as the antagonism of creative thought. It is pure, too, this detachment. Full of raw feeling, like that first sip of water after a long day of fasting, even if it appears and, occasionally, apathetic.
Take this step when you feel the need. Ease back an inch, a foot, a meter away from what you adore and take a peek within yourself. Distance, at times, not only makes the heart grow fonder, it also keeps you sane.