In the Quiet

Sometimes, words come so easily.  They flow without thought or plan.  And sometimes, there are simply no words.  No matter how hard I try, I cannot conjure up nor string together coherent sentences.  For a person like me who often seems to have no shortage of words, it is an odd feeling indeed.

Lately, I've just felt, well, quiet.  Not that life has slowed down, nor have my thoughts ceased spinning, for neither is the case - it's just that every time that I sit down to write, nothing comes out.  So, I push back my chair, refill my water glass, and retreat to the couch.  Wordless, again.

I wrestle in this space:  craving authenticity, while fearing vulnerability. Do I really have anything worth saying to add to the already over-saturated drone of the internet?  It seems somewhat self-congratulatory to assume that what I write is worth reading.  So, why do it?

I do it because I must.  I must write, I must process, I must muse.  I do it hoping that someone eavesdrops on these silly conversations that I have with myself and can relate.  I do it to keep those who are faraway nearby.  But, what about when there's nothing to say?  What then?

Well, I suppose then I just write some confuddled (yeah, totally a word) post about writing nothing.

And, even in the quiet, it turns out, there's still quite a bit of noise.



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