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.
