Writer or not?

Can one incident of life seize the one and only gift of a writer? Can the flame of past activity put out the flame of writing?

It has been long since I really sorted out what my subconscious mind has been dealing with. I can’t lie that I messed up or my life has become messed up since few months. I feel clueless about what I am writing down. I am not even sure I’ll make any sense this time. I am afraid that I’ve lost my ability to write or portray down my emotions or my opinion. Is it possible for a writer to forget the way they used to write before? 

Am I worthy enough to call myself a writer when I write everyday and stop abruptly for a month or two? What do I call myself on the days when I don’t write at all? Do I play the card of a victim by lying to myself for being too busy? Should I feel guilty for neglecting all the warning signs when I was losing my grip? Am I just another spectator who watches the leaves fall from trees and feel the wind blow through my skin? Does my writing ignite the same old flame in every letter that I write? I feel my words have layers of rust that aren’t capable enough of shaking my belief system. They can just create a hollow space for me to dive deeper without creating a route to return back. All these questions that I keep asking myself, are they worthy of getting an answer? Will my words summon answers for them? The path of getting an answer remains a question itself. I am better at getting haunted by questions than chasing the answers. I am better at playing pretend and hiding behind my self created busy schedule. I can still feel the winds through skin but I can feel my words flow through me too. I am not just a spectator of the changing seasons I am the witness of my life taking a different curve at every moment. I am not looking forward to move around in circles and wait for time to send me back to square one. Time’s ticking like it’s running on a treadmill. It might try bringing me back to the first loop but I am preparing myself to take the leap whenever I get a chance. I can’t wait to scratch off the bucket list for I can never be more ready than I am today. I will not wait for my life to give me opportunities to enjoy and to write, I will make an opportunity myself.

People might take me as an opportunist but I am nurturing my beautiful passion into a tree to provide me zeal on the days when I don’t write.