It has a way of taking hold sometimes.
Have you ever wanted to do something so desperately, but simply could not?
That’s how I have felt lately regarding writing.
There are moments in each day where I find something on the tip of my brain that I simply want to share, but words fail me as of late.
Is this writers block?
Or perhaps simply a lapse in the ability to emote?
Whatever it is I find it frustrating.
It’s as if my thoughts are being held captive in the wrinkles and recesses of my brain. I can feel them straining towards release but to no avail. Instead, my pores capture the feelings before they are able to escape. Pushing them back to the darkness, where words, thoughts, ideas and emotions, mingle and swim together in a warm, salty pool.
I want to say things like:
I saw a leaf today.
It was ordinary, save for its color and position among a pile of dried and somewhat worn castaways. Discarded by the large trees that loom overhead. I bent down to touch its brittle base and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was still quite supple and smooth. And I wondered, did it miss its home on the branch above? Was it sad to have been taken away from the safety that it knew? Had it come to rest above a family of ants, sheltering them from the recent rain storms? And if so, was it happy to have been of assistance? It was a leaf like any other, but its story was unique. So, I took it home and gently floated it in fragrant, melted wax. It now sits in a lacquered bowl on my bookshelf. Its final resting place of peace.
Such bits of beauty strike me on a daily basis. It is then that I want to write.
I want to write about the wind that sings through the trees, causing my soul to sigh. I want to describe the bruised appearance of the clouds that float above before a storm. Or of the delicate scent of pine that wafts through the park as I walk my pup. I want to speak of the little things that make life splendid and precious.
So, here I sit, the night is quiet. The only sound, the flickering of a candle’s flame. And, I write.