I sit with my fingers holding a pen close. I want to write something. Anything.

I want to write about my current obsession with an unseen television programme. I want to write about the messy puddly road in front of my apartment. I want to write a rant about the well-chronicled callousness of elected representatives. I want to bemoan the sore state of infrastructure; or rather its lack therefore; in my hometown. I want to expostulate on the on-going carelessness and apathy towards our planet and its environment.

I want to write a paen to the soft-spoken King of grasscourt: Roger Federer. I want to pay a homage to the will and wiles of a man called Kumble. I want to salute the bravery of Imran Mirza, an Indian middle-class Muslim father who dared to dream big for his daughter. I want to debate the subtle art of gestures, glances and pauses. I want to wallow in the experience of varied colours and flavours.

I want to write about the magic of words; how words can build whole kingdoms and worlds. I want to write about the slow seduction of words; about the powerful imagery they weave. I want to bow in front of an altar to Tolkien, Asimov and Stephen King.

I want to learn how only words can undo the spell of words.

My thoughts fly across the myraid seas to ride the waves as they fight the moon's temptation. But my hand is still poised over a plain sheet of paper.