Illusions of a Bachelor, Series

Illusions of a Bachelor: Who stole my painting?

By Aaron Aroriza, Uganda:

An avalanche of thoughts hits your mind – profound thoughts, in your opinion. I should share these with our readers: you think. More thoughts keep coming – interesting thoughts. You weave a beautiful story around them – a story never heard before; a story never told before. You have every scene in your mind; you've painted the picture in astonishing detail – a real master piece. You are about to write a piece you will be proud of – a piece you are sure the readers will love.

You sit on your laptop. The light-blue light flickers reflecting the exhilaration in your eyes as your fingers drop to the key board. You are excited. You are ready to type away; type all the stunning words your mind has envisioned, weaving them into a beautiful piece – a piece fit for the kings.

But the hands aren't moving. The mind is suddenly blank. The picture, that masterpiece you could so vividly see – almost touch and smell a few minutes back is suddenly replaced by a blurry image with no character whatsoever; no texture, no smell and it's now visually displeasing. It must be the flickering light on my screen: you think.

You get a pen and paper – the good old traditional tools of writing. You are aware that a good number of classics were penned down in this very traditional way. That most of literature's greats penned down their thoughts. They never typed them. Perhaps the trick is in penning; perhaps something does indeed happen between the brain and the hand when there's a pen resolutely attached at the extreme end of the hand and a paper feebly lying at the tip of that pen: you convince yourself.

Five minutes later, you are still staring at a blank paper save for the few doodles you've absent-mindedly squiggled at the bottom. Oh. And you've flattened the plastic pen cover you've been frantically chewing on. So much for penning down a classic, the old fashioned way! I must be having writer's block: you tell yourself. No, you are just missing me, Helga's voice whispers: You are missing your muse. But if it's my muse I'm missing what was that in my mind a few minutes ago – who was holding the canvas on which I painted the master piece that has now disappeared into the memory maze? Who… stole my painting?

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