I can only tell you

I used to feel as though my body was filled with words. So full they could not be contained. They fell from my hands, my lips, my very skin. It was as though writing was the only way I could keep myself from overflowing like a river that has burst its banks. Now I hardly write at all. It has been six months since I wrote my last post. Writing is not easy for me like it used to be. My brain feels sluggish. I struggle to form sentences and often find myself longing to write but with little idea what to write about.

Perhaps my creativity has run dry. Perhaps I was only gifted so many words. Did I use them all already? Is this it? I feel like I need an outlet and yet when I give myself the time to write, I cannot do it.

A year ago I would have written about this day. The pain of it. The endless march of time. The anniversary of a loss that comes round year after year, whether I want it to or not. I know what I would have done, but that is not what I do today. Today I tell myself to write. Beg the words to rise up.

It’s ironic really. That I’m writing about my inability to write. That I am able to tell you that I cannot do it anymore. Maybe you are reading this, thinking that of course I can. Isn’t that what I am doing right now? But I am telling you that I have lost my stories. I have lost lyrics and poetry. I have lost. I have lost. I have lost it all and it will not come back.