Some of them say that gloomy and destructive feelings breed the most fascinating creative work, but that’s not at all the case for me. When bad news or any other stressful factors pound in my heart and mind, I instantly creep towards my bed to slip inside a cocoon where I feel safe from any type of anxieties and fright, while shutting tightly the door of my imagination… as at the same time the light bulb that’s over my head turns off.

I am unable to think properly when chaos, disorder, bad news, stressful factors strike. I guess that I’m a happy writer — a writer who feels more productive and inspired when things are going well around, when crazy humorous things and people make me laugh, or when I feel immersed, or surrounded by bountiful and mystical beauty that instantly arouse a feeling of epiphany in me.

Simply put, I need to dwell inside that field of positive energy so as to be more creative and enthusiastic.

I don’t want my fear to transpire in my writings.

Since I heard the bad news that covid is again spreading its deadly spores all over our island, I can’t seem to get the necessary inspiration to write, or I have all the pain in the world to do so, for the words seem stuck somewhere in between my chaotic feelings, imprisoned tightly inside of that ribcage of mine.

Mauritius is a small island, and hearing that more than ten people have already been infected by covid makes my anxiety peak. Hasn’t the reaper had enough? Haven’t we suffered enough? Haven’t we paid back enough for all the sins that have remained clogged in our blood since Pandora opened that box? How many more souls will be devoured? Why this automatic upgrade of our universe? Why did all of this had to happen in our lifetime?

All of these absurd questions that float in my mind instead of inspiration and creativity; while, closing my eyes so as to go deep to clear my head, only the spread of colour red appears and persists, instead of the usual dark of my emptied head. I don’t know if it’s a bad omen, or if it’s my anxieties that make pressure on my mind, but I know that’s not how I usually function.

I am trying to write a poem for the independence day of Mauritius… but the words won’t settle in my head; all I want to do is lay on my bed to read or scroll through those creative feeds to summon the necessary inspiration and enthusiasm in me.

A heavy weight glooms my heart right now, and if the thought of writing poems and fiction isn’t easing that feeling of uneasiness, if the very fact of putting myself in the creative mode so as to annihilate those destructive and negative feelings don’t work… then what other activity would? I don’t want to write this type of journal entry, I don’t want to release blog posts filled with these thoughts on which I am choking on. I don’t want my fear to transpire in my writings.

I am a happy writer — a writer who feels more productive and inspired when things are going well around.

Today is our first day of lockdown. We entered confinement in the same month as last year. And on Friday, or Saturday, I had planned to go to a book festival, where Mauritian authors have been invited to, and there, I would have signed autographs, I would have asked for autographs, I would have bought books I like, I would have finally connected with other authors, and as well as with the publishing world; finally I would have got the necessary advice to help me publish my books, I would have finally stepped out of my comfort zone (for I want to believe the quote that says ‘change begins at the end of your comfort zone’)… and then, this.

See, I guess there’s some hope that I might recover from writing block. It remains to see how long it will take for me to recover from this sudden eruption of anxieties, and from there, rush to writing again, and stop writing all of these negative nonsense, or not.