I’ve always thought of myself as a writer, although saying it out like that sounds a bit pompous; at least to me. Building something through my words never fails to thrill me but I don’t like to attach a defined role to it. I think it was that lack of pressure on my younger self that allowed me to write freely whenever I wanted and whatever I wanted.

This was easy to do in school since it was formally assigned to me, but I also used to take up a pen and paper at home too. I’d like to think that prose was my forte.

I have not written a short story in a long time. The last time I wrote a story was a fluke, an unexpected jolt of inspiration that pushed me to crystalise my thoughts in a narrative. And that was 12 or 13 years ago.

Since school, I have abandoned this passion. Maybe I still have it — I mean, I’m writing this column after all — but it feels like I’ve to dig it from its grave. It’s muted, faded, and receded to the background. It shows its face every now and then when I write a poem, and even more rarely when I write a paragraph or two.

Reasons why I find myself at this juncture are plenty: a busy life, planning a career, poor mental health and a lack of patience to sit and physically write. But the thing that bothers me the most is being distracted by content all day long. It comes in the form of TV shows, movies, music, YouTube videos, Instagram posts, WhatsApp group chats, and other digital platforms that compel me to stay up to date. Not catching up with content everyday feels like I’m left behind in some pop culture race in the collective consciousness of the society at large, or at least the people I hang out with. It is badly affecting my concentration and ability to sit with myself and explore my imagination. My brain craves the dopamine rush I got by sitting back and watching what other people were doing.

It’s easy and it’s comfortable. I don’t have to get out of bed and physically move to consume that content. I can move the tips of my fingers a few times and there it is. Writing or making something of my own seems a bit too much of an effort — too exhausting, too slow; and too challenging. Who wants obstacles to overcome when you can sidestep them and find accessible joy with minimal movement?

No amount of internet advice helps with this either. How many times have I been told that I should write every day, even if it’s bad, so I can develop the habit of doing it regularly? Many times. But that has not changed anything. What do you do with the lack of motivation and drive? The need to be perfect the very first time you write something?

I have even tried to make small notes of ideas for short stories, books, short films or scripts, hoping that the mere presence of a consolidated list will keep nurturing my motivation, that I will revisit it from time to time and build on those ideas. Even that has failed to produce results. Those ideas remain bullet points in a Google Doc somewhere.

In the end, I ask myself if I really want to be a writer. Is it something I wanted only when I was young? Are my goals different now? Have I moved on from that dream? Am I still latching on to an idea that I had? Is the lack of any written material a result of bad life structure and unhealthy habits or proof that my talents lie somewhere else?

I don’t have clear answers. I don’t know if I ever will. Time will tell if there is still something to come of my writing ability — I’m not opposed to that possibility. All I know is that at this moment it appears to be a much more difficult task than it once used to.

The writer is a freelance content writer