Of late, whenever I sit down to write I find myself staring blankly at the screen until boredom tips me into distraction, and I cannot decide whether it is that I have lost the will to put fingers to keyboard, or whether the subjects that once compelled me have vanished into thin air, or whether the whole business of social media has lost its charm, dulled into a background hum that no longer sparks excitement, and on top of all this there is the suffocating miasma of AI-generated slop clogging the atmosphere, and the endless churn of newsworthy happenings spilling over every second from every corner of the globe, which together grind down whatever fragile motivation remains, leaving me in the strange out-of-body experience of watching Kedar scroll and comment and post with a fatigue that borders on indifference, while at the same time my usual empathetic, sensitive self seems to be blunting, growing numb to tragedy, joy, even curiosity, a desensitisation that frightens me more than the silence of the blank page, and I keep asking myself, what exactly is this, how long will it last, is it just a phase as I hope, or is this, in truth, the end of the road for my writing.
