Is it that we (or I perhaps) only have things worth recounting during times of trouble?
I feel bereft of words, adrift in a world of apparently meaningless communications.
I used to write. I had words that flowed and trickled and poured from my mind and fell upon the pages to be shared and read and now, I have little of nothing, nothing of note or no words spare to determine how they should be ordered.
I should spend time alone with my words, with my thoughts, with my pen. I should get to know them once more, to make them my friends and see what relationships we can build.