At first, this was a poem.

A rainy afternoon, windows shut to the hiss and haze outside; gray without, gray within, moisture dripping down the panes. Waking up to a dull, throbbing ache in your head and gut; loneliness acute in its obviousness, in its entirety, not a soul around.
Pad into the kitchen, fix yourself a solitary lunch, abandon it. Push open the window panes, rest hands on the dust covered sill and gaze outward. Trains, snaking in the distance, whistles and hisses mingled. Smoke and blur and ashes. Stare and inhale till you're saturated with the smell of condensates and humor and misery, with the exhausts of other people. Wrap yourself around a couch; discolored flora dying away with wear and time and neglect. Gray permeates everything, all-devouring, you're scared. There's no blue as the day weans itself towards its end.
You strum a few notes, make lists in your head, take in smoke and exhale it. Look at pictures on the fridge. Maybe you should eat, maybe put something out for the cat, but it's unlikely it will return.

Right in front of your eyes, the shades of the gloom intensify. Skylight is dying, but in the outer world, happier folks will light up their lives. Yellow and orange and neon. Slivers in motion slice through the darkness, like roving eyes, tiny in the distance. Herd behavior; they move in packs. You sit till it's too dark to see anything but the cars, stories moving apart and away from you.
Smoke curls up magnificently, luminous in the dark.

Sit there, living out parallel lives in your head. It begins pouring again, the lights melt into one another, glowing streaks. A thing of beauty, forever is till you stay awake. Awake is a concept, the brain never sleeps. Energy, it all comes down to it. Thoughts, electrons, light, sound. You curl up on the floor, don't feel the threadbare carpet under you anymore. Cold. Textures hold no comfort anyway. The static of the rain is comforting.
White noise wipes everything else out. Blank. Zilch.

Ultimately.

You simply don't belong anywhere;
the only thing that stays
is motion, fluid, loss.

There's no home
for anyone.
No one to come back to,
forever.
No one's coming for you
either.

Perhaps a block.

After ages, finally. I feel like I've can write.
The past few days have gone in extreme self doubt and rueful admiration at everything others wrote. Everyone seemed to be able to write so fluently, effortlessly, I thought. And then I reminisced about the time when I wrote that way too; writing stuff I really liked in a just a few minutes, at the first attempt, not even having to edit it.
 
I'm 19, I have time and age and whatelsenot on my side, there was probably no need for the alarms I raised within myself.  But words seemed to have been replaced by mundane, lower stuff, stuff that I didn't even realize was there, I couldn't drag them out, the correct words, when I needed them. It was like selective amnesia. Freaky.
Grammar escaped me at times. And at those times: panic. And dread, at having lost it.
I'd be writing a sentence and in the second half, I'd have no idea about how to go about it anymore. I'd end up rephrasing the whole thing to something more manageable. It was humiliating, even to myself. I talked out loud to myself, and it got worse. It was like English had indeed become the second language for me, like it supposedly is. I couldn't string together even a few lines of a poem, I was too low for that. Everyone seemed to be blooming and writing and everything.

Maybe there's some improvement now. Slow, convalescing, but there indeed. Words still escape me, and there's still panic and a weird sort of grief. But I hope it continues, the change.

Was it a bad writer's block? Are they this way? I doubt. It seemed pathological, but I may be the weeniest bit of a hypochondriac, so we can't say.

an end

at times like these
what come to mind
are the strangest of things,
you'd think I was deeper
but I think
of things so random,
your nose,
your face when you looked at me
as I watched that movie,
I think of the coffee book
and that song you quoted
in Bengali,
of your message on my writing board,
that sheet you used to snatch away

do you too?

I wonder if
your eyes were open
or scrunched shut
when you said
it had to be over,
now that I think of it,
I don't even know
what you look like
when you're in trouble
or when you are surprised
or so many other things

it's been so little

you'd think I'd be better
now that it's been thrice,
but would it mean a thing
if I said
this is different?
can you believe
that someday
there will be memories
of the plans
and not the maroon
curtains themselves?
will you ever go to see
the Big Ben?
will you think of me
when you see a rabbit?

gone

I've been so
down and lost
for you
And you
-like one of those
little things,
like warmth
and smiles and
happy sighs,
that should've been
and yet are not-
are gone

...

there's this
growing space
that I keep
staring into

it's full of emptiness
loud and dark
with no remnants of you
to gaze onto

I try
to get away
but since you
got away
there's nowhere else to
look into

of loss

all she does is
stare at the screen
flipping through their pictures
smiling at him each time
till the pain punches through her again,
through all the kisses
and grins
all the memories of happier times

all she does is
wait for the the emptiness
to come and drown her,
for her sun's gone
and the cold's too much to take,
surrounded by his things
trying to reach to him
somehow

all she does is
read his texts all day
the promises
the love
and the little things,
typing out replies
she'll never send again

all she does is
cry into her pillow
and go through the motions
in a world
that does not,
for her,
revolve anymore

all she does is
die a little every hour