Is it that we (or I perhaps) only have things worth recounting during times of trouble?
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.
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