I haven’t been able to write for a while. I liken it to a bird waking up one day and finding that it can no longer sing. It can produce horrid, sharp, guttural noises, but its song is gone. It is not a lack of material because I can truly write about almost anything nor is it a lack of motivation or drive. Yet every time I open up a new document I can only get a sentence or two out at best.

It is frustrating to say the least. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad. I write when I’m confused or thoughtful. I write when I’m angry. I write when I’m joyful. I write when I’m distressed. Simply put, I write. There is too much thought and emotion in me all the time for my body to contain it, so it must be siphoned out of me in one way or another. Not having written anything in a while, I am most definitely at capacity.

And I know why. Every once in a while something begins to brew within that must be written out, but out of fear I refuse. The solid admission created by pen colliding with paper is far to much of a risk, far too grand of a gesture to sit comfortably with me. Instead, I push it aside and remain intent on putting pen to paper and writing about anything else. But it always fails miserably. The result is countless scattered journal entries, dozens of letters that will never be sent, and a few poems scribbled here and there–never collected in one location, always scattered and buried underneath some old socks or a pile of magazines. On the occasion that I do stumble across my littered secrets I always marvel at their honesty, their fervor, how much of myself has been infused into the paper in front of me, and how I could have ever forgotten they existed.

I always tuck the piece of paper or the notebook away again where I found it, magically forgetting it as soon as I turn around to walk away. I believe tonight I will be adding another piece into the mix. The narrative must continue.