I wonder

why I am not writing. It's not the case of being blissfully happy or shamefully busy. It is not the case of a paucity of topics or a drought of words. It is not a case of finding better ways to pass my time or lethargy. Probably it's ennui but why? I know not. I have tonnes of ideas and myriad stories to tell but I look at my blog and just want to look elsewhere. I read poems (and I shall surely write about the best weekend I had in several years) by a Jeet Thayil and I feel thoroughly disappointed with the state of present day writing and hastily conclude that it is probably something to do with my sense of good writing and my own writing that I am unable to see the reason why such writers/poets are even published. His poem about food habits in the mountainous regions was so pathetic that I rushed out of the bookstore and bought an ice-cream. So many other writers simply seem to get published and I wonder whether I should be adding to that mass without ... forget it. I will write for sure as that is pure bliss to me, but now I am basically limping through the streets of a foreign land (though I like the way Ottawa keeps its streets). But I wonder...