Owing to my depression, I had almost abandoned reading and listening to music. And ironically so, these are the only activities that I feed on for sanity. Having lost the interest to read or to listen to music, my ability to write too kept draining. Every time I tried to write, I ended up striking all that I wrote. I thought I wrote sheer nonsense.
Uncertainty had gripped me in its mesh.
I had no hazy clue how times would improve. Reading seemed laborious. I just couldn’t conjure up what the writer wanted to convey. I would stay stuck up on the same page for hours. And within moments I would land in my own sadist world, stressing and worrying about problems that never existed in the first place! And every time I made it to the next page, I would lose track of what I read previously. Believe me, there is no phase worst than this, that an avid reader can go through.
I felt as though I was being punished. Only exception being I had no slight idea what mistake I had committed.
Until I made my personal diary – my friend. I wrote everything unimaginable. At times, tears flowed down my cheeks while I wrote. I made sure I cleansed my heart and mind of all the issues that unsettled me. I wrote about everyone who made me feel inferior. I wrote about why I had to go through such things. I simply wrote, wrote and wrote a little more.
This practice relieved me. It became a routine, I couldn’t live without. Until it became an integral part of me. My diary accompanied me, wherever I went.
Today, here I am, wrapped up in pages when I have no other work. And buried in music, when I am not reading!
Daily Prompt: Punishment
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