NOT TODAY

 I drew spirals on the roof of my room as I rested my neck uncomfortably on the chair.  The bulb in my room that I had forgotten to replace, flickered. 

I moved only to realize that it was half past twelve in the clock on my wall. Even the sun designed so intricately in it, seemed dull at this hour. I looked at my study table and marveled at how much of a mess I could make, doing the most common of things. My hands were still numb from writing all the assignments that were long over-due. Procrastination had always been an old mate. 

I closed all the books and packed my things for another day of monotony. All my strength was finally giving in as the fatigue was summoned. It was a calling from my bed after the long day of nothingness I'd already had. 

And then, I saw it. The book I hadn't touched for months; the only one that I actually cared about. I asked myself if it was all worth it - staying away from doing something I loved for so long to focus on doing stuff I was forced to. I realized that I had ultimately failed at both.

My head was filled with ideas that couldn't be put to words. I convinced myself that a night's rest is all I need. Tomorrow, I could start afresh. But who was I kidding? In the last six months, I'd gone to sleep every night telling myself I'll write tomorrow. I had sacrificed so many of my thoughts, my random verses, my explicit ideas. And then, the next day I'd wake up with a mind so blank, it shocked me!

I knew there was no going back from this place. I had brought upon myself this writer's block. I blamed my hectic schedules for suppressing my notions. And then, I had blamed the latter for my constant lethargy that had led to this fateful day. 

But deep down, I knew I was the only one responsible for all of this. I even knew that only I could set it right. If only I had the strength enough to pick that book up and scribble absolutely anything that came into mind, I knew that it'd be the end of it all. 

But what would I scribble? Verses that didn't matter. Tales that would never be re-told. Poetry that had no feeling. Exactly everything I've always dreaded.

But then, I remembered. A lot of people I admired had picked up their pens, paint-brushes at times that felt like this and the world had been a better place because they did.

So I decided that it shouldn't matter how many lives my ideas changed. Even if it were just one. Even if that one person were just me.

I knew it would be worth it. And so ,I opened the book at last, scribbling to my heart's content.

I looked at the time again and this time, I didn't care. The sun was finally blazing.