Musings of a lost writer - Sense and Senselessness

God knows how I have been itching to write - to write something. People often write their musings down; those with a troubled mind do it more often to vent their closed up feelings. During dark times, I tend to close up; tighter than ever and let my troubles eat me up. They advise to let one's emotions settle and then pick up the pen. I have been waiting, waiting for the seething emotions to die down. But there has been no sign. No sign of the darkness letting up, no miracles, no human intervention - nothing. Rather the darkness has intensified, becoming more clingy and annoying in the process.

I blame myself - blame myself for letting the situation get out of control, for letting the darkness close up around me, for blocking out all the rays of light that ever tried to penetrate that darkness. But it isn't the darkness that is bothering me. After all, darkness is a permanent part of so many people's lives. No. Its something else this time - something that I can't quite put my finger on and that is what is annoying me more than anything else.        
    
Am I making any sense? I am afraid I am not. But then since when did sense become an acceptable entity in this world? If human beings are the creation of the same God, are they all not liable to same rights? If God bestowed His traits upon man, then oughtn't we be living in a perfect world? Why the lust for power and money when on the other hand people are cutting each other's throats for the sake of a penny? Why the show of enlightenment in a state which is sinking into the greater depths of abyss with each passing day?

But I digress. I am looking for my muse so that she might enable me to ink the blank sheets in front of me. But then why would she come? Who would want to tread in the dark, twisted alleys of my mind?  So I let the white sheets lie in disarray in front of me. White sheets? Not anymore! Their purity has been impinged by    doodles all over them. The writing does not make any sense. Nothing makes any sense.

I am sitting in the dark with the new, white sheet in front of me standing out in contrast. My unknown tormentor continues to torment me. My pen suffers the anguish of my restless fingers which squeeze it every now hoping to see a dew of hope drop from them. My eyes linger at the door of my room surveying the cracks for any loose ray of light, my ears await the sound of the step of my muse. The white sheet waits to be embellished by some of the pearls of wisdom bestowed in the muses.