Was I lost in thoughts so wild and large I’ve been chasing them down and collecting up jars – around the corners of my mind, was I wandering the earth in search of a dream that floated away in sleep, or was I looking for a perfect love, maybe, I was making new friends, meeting new people to explore ourselves within, or maybe I’ve been so busy I couldn’t possible create?
I wasn’t.
In cycles of contentment. Broken and lonely speckled days captured between sunrises and sunsets. Fractured sleep, but always dreams. Always tired, poorly sleeping, good intentions, troubles eating. Life with less living than meaning. Happiness came in spurts, carried in on other’s arms, in rare escapes and on special days.

Maybe I haven’t written because my words are a mirror and I’m sick of looking at myself, done with the terror with spilling out onto paper. Terrified of what it is I might find, lurking between the lines, the sentences I let seep out.
Maybe I haven’t written because I don’t want to feel. When writing is a real release, maybe there are some things that I have tried too hard to keep. Bottles bursting with feelings, because if I cling onto this silence I don’t have to try healing.
Maybe I haven’t written because my words are by me, and I don’t want to speak. A hungry self-loathing pulling my fingers back from these words, if I don’t talk you won’t know I’m hurt.
Maybe I haven’t written because nothing is better than this. Silence is perfect, and I’m so far from it. I can’t live up to myself.
Maybe I haven’t written because I’m sure I’m a fraud, a deceit sneaking my clumsy works under your eyes waiting to be exposed and critiqued. With every piece I throw into your direction the chances get greater than you’ll see who I am; an untalented sham, an unfortunate freak.
Maybe I just haven’t written in a while.