Empty of words

Words have escaped my mind and scattered in the wind, leaving me feeling devoid of meaning and expression. I need words, or perhaps they need me. Words are the weft and warp of the tapestries I weave, lending intonation and tenor to my dreams of bringing readers to tears and laughter in a mixture of sorrow, joy and wonder with my writing.

When I write, I am an adventuress, following unknown pathways full of questions and answers, or wrapped in the arms of a secret lover in a luscious dark night. Other times I am a simple crosser of bridges, one who walks alone across narrow ways connecting yesterday and tomorrow, or perhaps hopes and dreams over raging rivers of waters of doubt and fear. Or even a mystic dreamer who brings tales of magic and wonder alive, inspiring others to embrace wild dreams.

Words are my gifts to others, my way of sharing my deepest self with those I love. Without them my actions seem half empty, gestures devoid of color. And yet words can be terrifying and ominous, opening doors that appear in a midnight forest, daring me to approach. I want to gather the many words in my arms, holding them with the tenderness of a new lover, but I am afraid they will slip away and write someone else’s story. Or perhaps lie abandoned never to be whispered to me from a lover’s heart.