“Art block is not a butterfly rebirthing from its cocoon; it’s when the butterfly forgets its purpose and simply begins to exist.”

I love writing with pencils since I was a kid, and 4th standard was a momentous change as my teacher told us not to use pencils anymore and only ink pens were allowed because we were grown-ups now. I suppose I was indeed a grown-up when I was 9 years old, and maybe that’s why I was parenting the adults who were supposed to take care of the child in me—and the child that I was.

I really missed my white pencil with little pink flowers on it, with an attached eraser at the end. I used to make flowers with the pencil shavings and paste them at the end of my rough note, pretending I was making a ball gown little by little everyday, and it did look pretty in the end—if only the woman who brought my mother into existence hadn’t thrown it away like it meant nothing

Then came 2013. I was 10, and we moved from Chennai to Tenkasi. Coming back to our hometown after years felt unfamiliar. New school, new home—mornings used to start with 6’oclock FM on 93.5 back in the city, but now, the birds chirping and the dewy air felt easy to breathe. Throwing tantrums early in the morning—7-ish, maybe—was a daily ritual spiritually followed by the adults. Time started to move its course because she doesn’t wait for anyone. But at some point, she did—for me. She was gentle on me.

The new school was okay. I made a friend on my very first day—it was her birthday, and she took me with her to distribute chocolates all day. She told me I was pretty in my blue dress, and she was pretty as well. As months passed, a new adult came into our lives. Supposedly a guardian for my mother, my little sister, and me—a new addition “Adults that never grew up club”.

I didn’t say a word, and I never really understood the life around me. But fate—the second cruelest of all gods—forced me to understood the people around me. And I wouldn’t waste any word in any language to describe them; they aren’t worth being a description in my story. And that’s when my sweet friend time, who was waiting for me all along, came to my school one day.

My English teacher entered the classroom wearing a yellow saree—I still remember. She was holding an announcement, and she wrote “ A short story writing competition” on the black board. She went on describing the whole process and some other competitions as well. Even after the class was over and the bell rang, I refused to leave with my friends and went near the black board, already thinking of names for my story.

I wrote my very first story—as a ten year old and decorated my papers with glitter outlines. I even checked the grammar with my English teacher—she said she loved it. But I didn’t win that competition, and I wasn’t the least bit disappointed. That was the first time I felt alive, though I was too young for words and just “alive” my heart preferred. I was my parents’ daughter, the perfect gifted first child for the family, and a hundred other things for a hundred others, but for myself, I was nothing. I didn’t have a name, a sense of something, anything—until that day, the day I picked up my pencil again, as a writer.

Ten years passed by, and I’m sure I’ve written over a million words—I promise. But I’ve burned half of them—most of them. The people that participated in my existence along with me—they kept becoming one of those burnt pages in my diaries. But Time, she was easy on me. Time and Writing were the only two that stood by me when I was at war with every other life around me, just to keep that ten-year-old girl in me safe. I wanted to protect her, and I hope I someday will.

But then Art block—the cruelest woman I’ve ever met—didn’t just knock on my door; She threw herself on me like like I was her longing wife and she was a soldier returning from civil war. She was all over me. And wars take to happen again, my former wife decided to make a sweet, long stay at home. My good friends, Story and Poem, said their goodbyes and left my home without telling me when they would come back. I watched the lives I built within them, each character and every flaw, taking its last breath as they dispersed like whispers.

Art block - She pressed herself
Into my soul,
Her touch was never gentle,
But always familiar.
Her kisses suffocated,
Sweetness turned to ash,
Each breath she stole,
A scarred lash.
She held me close,
Yet cared not for my cries,
Her love was cruel,
Indifferent to my sighs.

And as I said, ten years passed with my former wife and her sweet poisonings. My lover, Time, knocked on my window when my wife was sleeping and said, “Apologies, my love for it took this long to find my way to you again. Here’s the letter from your friends, Story and Poem—I think they are coming back home after years. We missed you.” She took my hand and asked, “Can I kiss you?”, and she did. She brought with her some new pencils—the same kind I adore.

As my lover and my friends found their way back home, we unalived my former wife together and inscribed her tombstone with the words, “May you never find afterlife, and may you rest well.” My lover and I, we hope to live happily ever after from now.

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