Flicker Out

By Irene Hao

When I sat down one November evening and stared at the empty Google Doc on my laptop for 15 minutes straight, I knew I was experiencing burnout. Drafting this piece was quite meta: I struggled to write about my struggle to write.

If passion were a flame, then it’s flickered out
I’ve got a new candle ready
But my hands can’t stop shivering from the cold wind
But I can’t find the match to light it
I’m scraping the dried melted wax of the last flame
Where are the remnants of that candle?
If I collect the ashes, I should be able to see that flame again
If I collect the ashes, at least let me give this passion a proper burial

The lines in my notebook compel me to fill them
Letters, scribbles, patterns, sketches
Fill me, leave your imprints on me
Press the paper so hard you could trace the dents on the next page 
And I do it, because I want to.
But how do I move my pen across the page
If nothing moves me anymore?

Writing—it’s my thing
It’s why I can face college essays unabashedly
It’s how I introduce myself: I’m Irene, a writer
Expectant eyes, escapist essays, and empty lies
I’m a blank slate:
“You’re good with words, so please write for me.”
“You’re a writer, so just do your thing.”
Writing can’t be my thing if the words I write aren’t mine

I remember when I knew putting thoughts on paper,
Spinning ideas into words, words onto pages, would be my calling
I remember the A’s, the praises, the excited gazes
Late-night conversations with parents, new friends, and a sense of pride
That I stood out from the crowd and that my future would be bright
I’ll continue chasing after this flickering dream
When I fall, I know that I’ll fall into my safety net: writing
But it feels like I’m falling for a lie instead

Writing—it’s what got me here, standing proud
I should be proud, but I also should be writing this down
How I feel, what I say, what I think
Every word that spills from my mind
Could be left behind, so I craft a makeshift basket out of paper
And let the words ooze and bleed through
I’m a writer, so I should put something down

But how do I move my pen across the page
If nothing moves me anymore?

If writing were a flame, then this is burnout
That’s right, it’s writer’s block, a plateau
It’s a blank space, a blank line, a blank mind
Is writing even a passion when I don’t feel passionate about it?

The pages in my notebook compel me to rip them
Tears, cuts, scrapes, and white-out
Cross me out. Erase me. There’s nothing you want to write now. 
Calm down, I tell myself. This will work itself out.
I toss the notebook against my bedroom wall
And I do it, because I want to

My mission is my passion: I love to create and imagine
I want my job to be my passion, the source of my excitement
And now I’m here. I’m making my way up, but
I’m scared of heights, and I want to climb back down
But I can’t move. It’s like the hardened wax from all the candles I’ve gone through
Has rooted me to the spot. I can’t go back, but where should I go from here?
How do I move my pen across the page
If nothing moves me anymore?