My fingers and soul are itching to write, so far nothing but hollowness invade my thoughts. At least that's what I tell myself, but deep down I know it's fear. Fear of reaching down into the depths of a soul that has not been fed properly, a soul that feels abandoned. I search for words but I know I'm only skimming the surface. Complex words lead to complex thoughts and those can get you in trouble.
So I look outward for inspiration, I think of good times, I think of sad times. I think of home, past, present and future. What things are, what things aren't and what things will be. When thinking doesn't work I just feel. Feel for the wind, for the sun, for the rain. It all comes to a halt when I realize that I can't feel, I can't feel not because I'm numb but because I never have.
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