I miss writing. I miss poetry. I miss words and ink stained hands.
When I need a true escape from life I stop writing, I stop everything. I wish I didn’t stop writing, because in those moments I’m at my best. The words are their purest and most coherent selves.
I have a journal in which I write letters to God and I even stop writing those.
This morning I questioned myself, while driving to work, why have you stopped?
Does a part me want to give up? No… I think it comes down to loosing trust somewhere along the way. I can’t even trust paper to take my secrets and keep them safe within the binding of it’s threaded pages.
The person that keeps telling me this needs to shut up and bother someone else for awhile. Oh wait… I’m telling myself to stop.
I need the writing drought to be OVER.