By Aanya Gulati
I’ve developed some irrational fears lately.
An admirer of words, philosophy, literature—
Simply, cannot.
I’ve spent days shaded beneath a banyan tree,
Nights in a dark, quiet room,
Scribbling on scraps of paper,
Writing tales of all kinds:
Fiction.
Reality.
Facts.
Tales woven into lyrics,
Lyrics once lovingly called poetry.
Perhaps I’ve used my pen too much—
That writing cannot flow by
Lyrics are no longer associated with magic.
Stories where words once danced
Now trip, stumble,
Fail their very purpose:
To make meaning.
Perhaps this is the tale of life.
In ten days, I’ll turn sixteen.
Maybe it was just a phase.
But how can a phase
Shake the foundation
Of all, I was known for?
A writer.
A creative spirit.
A passionate soul.
Somewhere in between,
The pen must’ve snapped.
The pages wrinkled.
The mind wandered.
And I got lost.
Stupid—
A fool, maybe.
To wake one day
And find words have left me.
This is no longer a fear.
It’s the truth.