I would write more, write often if I weren’t so afraid it might become a sad eulogy for my hand. The black words bleed from my pen as I try to reason out through objective thought why my words no longer hold feelings.
My soul wandered from its spot in my heart into some cold sanctuary between my ears, trapped in thought with no color.
When only bland, lifeless words rise from my mind, what is left to be written? Surely no one wishes to hear of this obsession of the scribe and her pathetic inability to do what she yearns to.
She is afraid that her words might be trapped for so long, they might resurface one day in the form of a suicide note.