Often writing can be challenging; not merely for the usual demands it places on your intelligence
and creative acumen, you always thought existed – how so much ever elusive – it can push you
into a long, arduous, self-defeating journey – lonely and exacting. It is nothing less than the
crossroads Hamlet found himself at, as he increasingly mulled over the crisis of existence itself –
to be or not to be. Imagine Hamlet not in a castle but standing alone in a vast, dark theatre – the
spotlight his only companion. The world – a stage but also a void.
Hamlet’s dilemma resonates beyond the Elizabethan court – it echoes in every soul that has
suffered. He becomes the archetype of the modern, disillusioned hero, centuries before Camus or
Sartre ever penned their first line. Hamlet is Camus’s Sisyphus, wondering if pushing the rock is
still worth it. He is Nietzsche’s overman on the edge of becoming, paralysed by his
consciousness.

I pause and ask myself – What is the purpose of writing? Is this process worth enduring? At
times, I have stared at the walls, not knowing what else to fix my gaze at. At times I have stared
at the blank sheet, petulantly staring back at me. I have watched over the much-awaited words
and thoughts hand in hand marching out of the hallowed annals of memory like long-lost friends.
But then they disappeared simply out of existence. Oscillating between presence and absence, I
scoured for remnants left behind, hoping to retrieve the last dregs of my fleeting imagination.

And this brings me to a question I have been pondering for a while:

Did heartbreak turn Shelley into a poet?

Does the poet, or the novelist, or the short story writer, somehow need to find an intense well of
emotions and feelings from which to draw inspiration for their poems, stories and novels?

Did a Muse create Shelley or Keats the poet?

Or did the poet himself conjure a Muse inside his head?

My Muse is nothing but a flicker at the corner of my eye, disappearing the moment I try to look
directly at her. I chase her through forests of thought, over deserts of distraction, across oceans of
fatigue. And when I finally think I’ve caught her when the pen begins to move—she vanishes
again, laughing like a trickster god. And then –

… it all begins when I stop
trusting language

Do words mean what they
pretend to mean

With my authority
slipping away into
The abyss of precarity
words masked as they are
Look the other way
as if I don’t mean what I
say
And what I say is not
even close to what I mean
They even trick me into believing
that I exist or maybe not
or into ways of thinking
and unthinking

enough is enough
they reprimand

That is when I decide
I must use them with caution
Or maybe lock them in some
remote corner of my mind
and ask them to stay put

“Like a patient etherised upon
A table… “

“Forget the myths of the Muse whispering ideas in your ear” – I tell myself while casually
sipping coffee and consolidating my scattered thoughts as I wrap my head around episodes of
violence streaming in unabated. This well of emotions is frightening, as I stand at its formidable
edge, looking into an intimidating reservoir. It is too much to bear, I tell myself turning away in
desperate despair.

I try to keep my spirits awake and invigorated by stitching some loosely fitting thoughts
together:

I see the war

No not on TV
Outside my window
Playing out on the road
I had walked down
No, not too long ago
To buy some cabbage
For the soup
I never could sip in peace
It lies still in the fridge
With doors ripped apart
The contorted dead fish
Gaping into oblivion
With dreams in its eyes

No, not too long ago

---

Aparna Singh (Ph.D.) is an academic, poet and short story writer. She has taught in various
educational institutions across Kolkata in the past decade. She works as an Assistant Professor in
the Department of English, Diamond Harbour Women’s University. She has published in
multiple national and international journals and books to date. Her area of interest includes
Indian Writing in English and Dalit literature. She has four edited volumes to her credit and has
worked as a copyeditor with Sahitya Akademi. She is one of the authors of the poetry collection
Three Witches’ Songs and the author of the short story collection Periodic Tales, which won the
Nissim International Special Mention Award 2024. She has published book reviews with The
Statesman, Muse India, The Hooghly Review, and the international journals Setu and Indialogs.