I returned with a pen in my hand—and nothing in my head.

  Can you remember the tomorrow I mentioned last time?

  Yes.

  This is not ‘THAT’ tomorrow.

  And yet—

  here I am again.

  I arrived with grand plans today. Stories lined up in my head, waiting to be born. I imagined myself pouring words effortlessly, weaving a narrative that would hold hearts and refuse to let go.

  That was the intention.

  With that resolve, I took the pen into my hand.

  And then—nothing.

  My pen freezes.

  My mind goes pitch black. Not even a faint glimmer of a thought dares to appear.

  The question is still there.

  What to write?

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  I wait. I plead. I argue with my own mind.

  Come on—just one idea. One beginning.

  But the mind I trusted betrays me again.

  I feel stuck in a strange stillness, as if the world had paused its movement just to watch me fail. The space inside my head feels empty and heavy at the same time—silent, unmoving, without a pulse.

  Once, my world was filled with colour. Now it feels like a deserted land, dark and uninhabited.

  Questions flow through it relentlessly.

  What should I write?

  How do I begin?

  Who does this story belong to?

  Where do I even start?

  I tap the table with the back of my pen. Take a deep breath. Then another.

  My eyes drift to the edge of a cloud slowly passing through the blue sky. I watch it, hoping my thoughts would follow.

  Think… mind, think.

  Ideas begin to surface—but they come tangled. Old plots. Borrowed stories. Memories from books and lives that were never mine. They collide like traffic on a crowded highway, loud and directionless.

  I try to untangle them.

  And then—

  A soft giggle breaks the noise.

  I look up to see a baby laughing, waving tiny hands from the arms of a man—his father, I assume. The man laughs back, eyes warm, fully present in that moment. For a second, the world feels gentle.

  If only I had a father like that.

  The thought came quietly, without warning. But it didn’t stay long. Some things belong to the past, and some ages do not return.

  Have you ever returned to something with hope—only to find yourself exactly where you started?

  I pull myself back.

  My lonely author is here again.

  Not triumphant. Not inspired.

  Just present.

  And for now, that feels enough.

  — From Writer’s Diary

  Chathurma??

  Next: Writer’s Diary — Note 3