Writing is a perilous journey… you never know where you will go… you never know where you will end up. You do not know if you can finish the trip, or fall of a cliff towards an oblivion of silence. Whiteness is the enemy of the writer. The empty paper.

And right now, everything is uninspired. Everything is white. Everything is blank, meaningless. That is what I feel right now. And I cannot write. I cannot write what I want to write. I cannot write about meaning, when at the state I am in right now, I cannot even find meaning.

And I want to write an article for AtSCA. Because I love AtSCA. The seniors asked me if I could write for the Tala, and I said yes, it would be an honor. But I just cannot find something to write about. The words are elusive. Meaning, and love, is elusive. Right now, what shall I write? There are plenty of things to write about for sure. Love is abundant. Meaning is abundant. But my sensitivity to meaning and love, right now, is not. For I am like a person staring off at the shore, towards the horizon. Wanting to ride a slow boat. And detach myself from this land. Of meanings and meaninglessness. And slowly, steadily, silently, float towards that endless, infinite, beautiful horizon. As the tired sun sets. And orange turns to dark orange to light blue, to dark blue. And one by one stars appear. And waves and movement in the water around me become constant and unnoticeable. And then – stillness. Silence, and stillness. This is what I want to write about. Today, it is not about the passion and the fire. It is about the melancholy inside of me. That is what I want to write about. And as I sway, alone, on that boat, I look back at the land that I have left. I look towards the endless horizon to which I want to go. I look up at the darkening sky. I lay down in the complete loneliness. Feel the weight in my chest. And let my mind leave my body. Fly. Leave this dark and complex world. Into a fantasy of ideas, and detachment, and blissful dreams. Escape. Escaping, flying, happily. Zooming across the skies. Towards the stars. As one or two shooting stars streak across the night, nobody would notice how the lonely man in the fishing boat has left.