Writer’s block

I once heard that the great science fiction writer Isaac Asimov once had a writers’ block, and it was the worst ten minutes of his life. Apparently, my writer’s blocks last much longer than Asimov’s. You know what it is like when you simply stare at the blinking cursor for minutes together, wondering when it would move rightwards in a flow of Times New Roman characters…I felt in such a mood for a really long time. Maybe its because life has changed dramatically, that I am no longer as contemplative as I once was. It was then I remembered these lines from the movie Finding Neverland, which finally brought me back to the keyboard again:

Peter: I still have no idea what to write.
J.M. Barrie: Write about anything. Write about your family, write about the talking whale!
Peter: What whale?
J.M. Barrie: The one that’s trapped in your imagination and desperate to get out.

Sharp and crisp, don’t you think?

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I Wonder Why I Wonder

Gusts of wind traverse the large hard ground, creating small eddies and whorls that remind you of black holes and whirlpools. It was a cool sultry day.

There is a wonder in all of us, that which we feel towards nature, life and the vastness of eternity; that which enriches our lives and that make us more human than any other quality; and that which is sadly destroyed and forgotten because the momentary influences and happenings of everyday lives.

It was for this reason and many others that I found myself in a library, looking for reason of all reasons and wondering why I wonder… It was a sanctuary, a word which here means a small safe place in a troubling world.

This is not the title of a blog post

Nothing is perfect. This blog is nothing. Does that mean this blog is perfect?

Which is better ….a piece of bread or eternal happiness? Nothing is better than eternal happiness…but a piece of bread is certainly better than nothing. Does that mean a piece of bread is really better than eternal happiness?

There are reasons why people like me love paradoxes. They make the world of the ordinary and mundane seem so exciting and wonderful – like the one-sided piece of paper called the Mobius strip. Life is rich with them to the point that you will never reach a stage when you have exhausted all of them.

Nobody writes anymore. But I am not nobody. Does that mean that I didn’t write this post?

Perhaps, with little bit more of confused reasoning and misguided logic, you could prove that everybody is nobody.