Well Of Words

It does not make sense. Why does it have to be me and me only! - well, at least it seems that way to me. I have, literally and quite suddenly, run out of words and thoughts. Most people call it the writer's block, which is more often associated with a novelist, a real writer, if you know what I mean; I am just a blogger and a self-important wordsmith. Yes, I prefer to be called a wordsmith if you don't mind. A wordsmith, like a manual worker in hard labour, agonises for his craft, yet I aren't suffering much - at least not enough to write. Words, somehow to be compelling and absorbing, demands every ounce of my pain and grief in life. I am convinced that writing comes easy if one experiences some dissonance or displeasure resulting in a thorny issue to ponder. And of course, that is not the case here unless you consider this dried up well of words as such.

PS: It is somewhat more difficult to write about great memories or goodness in people, relative to self-pity or bitching.