My pen is dry. I don’t have a voice. It seems the rest of the world is talking but my pen ran dry. The letters that form the words that weave a tapestry of stories are not intertwining together. Instead I have disjointed thoughts that never leave my mind. The letters form into words, they come together, then they flit away. I watch them go wanting them to stay together but like the dandelion fluff on the wind they scatter apart. What will I do? Confinement seems logical, travel seems luxurious, experience seems necessary. Why then do the words abandon me? I sit in disbelief that the words have left me. I try to attach the tangible to them but it is not to be. My pen ran dry. An intimate part of me is missing. The part of me that dances to the music is languidly reclining on the sofa. The part of me that feels energy from the movement of my hands is sleeping. I miss the flow of thoughts. I desire more time to allow my pen to skate across the paper. The typing of my stories feels like torture. Why did you leave me? When will you return?
My pen ran dry.