Habitual of beginning all her write-ups with a conditional clause, almost obsessively every time, Sia sat holding her laptop in her lap (no pun implied),wrote ‘Only if it were a happy world..’ ,almost blank, desperately looking at the ceiling, the occasional glances aimed at the much needed inspiration.

The pattern had become almost a month old now. Why could she not pen down those feelings as effortlessly and instinctively as earlier?

Writer’s block, she wondered.

But wait! Was she even a writer? All those rantings were cries and sighs of a disillusioned and fractured state of mind, conceived almost in a furious typing of words by quivering fingers. She does not even remember them.

And then it dawned on her. She does not remember her own works. Has she abandoned them?

No. The works had abandoned her rather. She cannot abandon them because they never belonged to her in the first place. They belonged to their unique individual moments.

She turned off the laptop, amazed at her absolute inability to write combined with the unique nature of this new crazy thought. Should she pen it down?

She smiled at herself.

Writing would die surely,

Only if it were a happy world.