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Perplexed are my hands, even more so my mind as I ponder on the fact that I used to be a prolific writer.
Wonder seems to stop the ink flowing throw my pen not because the ink fail, but because words that used to come naturally to my heart seem to have frozen.
Hum! Unimaginable!
Pausing Severally to think before writing is a new station that I have arrived at - this station unfortunately seems not to have a vehicle to carry my static thoughts across the barren whiteness of my parched dairy... So parched, for no rain of words had fallen on it for years.
But here tonight as I stumbled upon my writings about a beloved friend - many years old - I realize, the vein of poetry I thought had disappeared still lives on.
Can I trace it back to the wealth of gold that erupts like molten magma in the belly of my soul - which has been dormant for as long as I can remember?
Can I write again?
