There are no words.
I can dress it up however I like, but at the moment, it just won’t come. I can’t write. I can’t think of things to write about. Even when I do, when the thought drops, the words aren’t there. Or the words are there, but the time and space to write is not. Or the time and space is there, but the words are not. Just disapproval, frustration, and no words.
I seem to be spending hours of every day, holding my pen, a blank page in front of me. Or loading up Word and Blogger, only to stare blankly ahead of me, not knowing what it is I want to say, how to say it. How to even start to say it.
It’s never been a problem before. Never. I could always write, I always knew what it was I wanted to say and how to express it. But it’s gone. It drifted away over Christmas, and it’s not returned. I’ve barely written anything at all this year, and I know, deep down, that the few things I have written aren’t good. They don’t read well, they don’t sound like my voice, they’ve not truly captured what it is I think. The overwhelming compulsion to take an idea, a moment, or a conversation and fire everything I have at it… It’s gone. And what if it never does return? What if the silence stays and I’m trapped again? Because if I can’t write, if I can’t harness the ideas that chase their tails, and pin them to the page, then what will I be?
I’ll be nothing. Less than nothing. Because words are what I do. But there are no words.