The churning inside me is placid. The burning in my bones smoldering, smoking embers withering – not even hissing – in the chill evening air. I am missing the stories, gilded threads I would unravel as I worked, unwound from their spools and all disappeared. Lessons etched onto my skin fading as henna, though I took them for inked beneath the surface. I have grown weary of my own voice in my head.
I have lost my words.
There is much that needs to be said. My heart, once full of conversations aching to be revealed, is still. My mind, so full of lessons, is prickling at the edges of ideas. I am weary of the chatter of spheres outside my immediacy.
I want to write. To bleed words again. But there is nothing. Not for sorrow or for busyness. Simply because there is nothing there. It’s not a block. It’s not an avoidance. It’s a vacuous chasm into which I peer, dauntless, with no existential reasoning for its presence.It is what it is.
When I scrawled them across that white wall, I had no idea the truth behind them:
The profound is diminished by the pressure to produce.
I have hope that the words will come again. The lessons and the conversations and the passions will return. For now, I will wait. I will give myself time. And space.
Perhaps now is the time not to speak,
But to listen.