Silence

My words have been my companion for as long as I can remember. When I discovered writing as a medium of expressing myself, it was like finding a lifelong friend. Through the good times and bad, what my voice couldn't say, my writing could.

Which is why since the last few weeks, I feel as though I have lost my best friend. My mind is brimming with words, begging to be let out, but the moment I sit to write, I draw a blank. It's like there's so much I need to say, that the only way I can say it is by keeping silent. 

It's an alien feeling and not one I particularly like. It's much like wearing an itchy coat in sub-zero temperatures; one longs to shrug it off but the alternative is freezing to death.

You might be wondering, what has brought this sudden full stop to the flow of my words. I mean, I wrote non-stop through the worst time of my life, through endless hospital days and the challenges that followed. I made so many of you a part of Aarav's journey through what I wrote. So why am I unable to put forth onto paper the turmoil that is brewing in my mind and heart? Why do my fingers tremble at describing the depth of hopelessness that I seem to be in the grip of?

They say (and by they I mean wise people who probably went through horrible things and came out on the other side) that it's darkest before dawn. Do I tell myself that this sense of absolute darkness I feel, is actually going to turn into a bright and cheerful morning? Or do I accept the fact that maybe, just maybe, I am so weary that I cannot find the strength to look for the silver lining? I have yet to decide. 

I remember the night Aarav had his surgery. Apart from the stress and the terror we felt, what I remember is the sense of sheer physical exhaustion. I recall sitting in a hard, plastic chair in the waiting room, literally, physically aching in every part of my body, wondering if I would ever feel energetic again. 

What I feel today is a similar exhaustion. This time of my mind and soul. It's the kind of weariness which shuts down all hope. It's like a particularly tenacious leech, which refuses to let go till it has sucked out everything positive inside. And I am at a loss at how to dislodge it. Do I rip it off, risking leaving the poison inside or do I let it fall off on its own, risking having nothing left? 

Over the years, people who have read my writings have told me how much hope I have given them. Today, I feel like I am letting all of them down. Because today, when I sit and write after weeks, all my words spell out, are despair. Which is why I think I shall choose to be silent till I can find something positive to offer my readers. 

At the moment, I am fresh out of hope and I don't know how to restock it.