lukewarm

You know ..when you get so used to writing only when things are either scorchingly hot or death cold...that moderate climate paralyses you and sucks into a drugged sedentary lifestyle...when days have been bleeding into each other,and conglomerating into months at end, of uneventful routine, you don't know what to think of it. you dont know how to deal with it and you certainly have nothing to say about it. coz you start fading into the backdrop of your own life..camouflaging with the non events and drifting along with the time - where day blends into night blends into day.

So you've just read the epiphobic new english dictionary definition of writer's block.

these are the days when even big things and events lose significance and seem dull and bane...nothing seems earthshatteringly urgent or important and your strangely numb. It's quite peaceful this comatose state..though you feel the emptiness all the time like the feeling you have when there's water in your ear...you can hear but you sound far away even to yourself...and no matter waht you do, the water's always there...bubb bubb bubb..you cant drain it out, shake it out or shut it out.
you get used to it...this sedated unaffected existance...after a while it requires too much effort to reach out and communicate and you're not motivated to even try..dialling a number or writing an email seems to take too much out of you.when you don't stay awake fr too long or don't get up and start doing things, you eventually eventually drift back to sleep..you succumb.
then you wake up someday....
perhaps its rain when you least expect it...or its a gust of wind on an unusually hot and humid day..or just a gentle breeze - something hits you and you stir, if just for a moment.

and then you write something that sounds curiously like this and go back to sleep.

"....that, when I waked,I cried to dream again."
- caliban, always a mystery.