words drafted, delete button and imagination creates characters with flaws.
The block gets to the mind as the manuscript is stuck like broken records.
Mind plays havoc, myriad thoughts reaches height of madness.
Swirling of crazy stuffs as unreal situations is imagined and lent credence.
The self knows that the romance is utter bullshit to titillate senses.
How one wish that the characters could exist in the real?
Pangs of writing is the most painful emotion underlying one’s existence.
Where is the muse?
One wanna it to stay forever to script the novel,
lost in translation.