On Silence Within Silence

These days I often find my words stopping... They stop before I start to speak, they stop before I start to write and they stop before I start to feel. I'd always let myself feel through words. I'd admire the beauty of scarlet sunsets or the charm of nebulous notes through words. I'd think them in my mind and feel them in my heart. And yet, these days I feel bits of myself slipping away with no words to describe this silent despair, this dreary desolate death.

I don't have the urge to write on most days. It's funny because there used to be days when I'd be driven to live out each day just so that I could let the words flow freely. Life has not been particularly sad, it's been quite good, I daresay, in a few areas... Still, it's as though I'm no longer possessed by the spirit which drove me. I do what I have to do everyday, but "my soul slides away".

I suppose it is a kind of numbness: one that I've allowed to become a habit through sheer force of routine. I know I should stop myself before it gets out of hand. But where is the inspiration when my eyes have been deadened to the sights of life?

Caught in the same pattern repeating year after year, I'm struck by how much I've let myself be bound... Me, a free spirit who'd rather die than live with clipped wings! Spring moves much slower through my footsteps and it seems that Winter has set in. Again, that's funny, for I'd always loved Winter and the cold that it brings.