Rust

My fingers sit poised over the keyboard unsure of what to do. They touch keys here and there, as if the S, the R and the L could tell them what to do. They used to fly so freely, tapping out truth and story. My truth. My story.

My mind runs through endless to do lists. I have to do this. I need to remember that. It has not run through a field, picking dandelions for inspiration. My mind has not spun fantastical stories. It has not given birth to wonderful ideas that have me springing out of bed at 2 am to have my fingers express.

There is a rust in my fingers and a haze in my mind.

Once I was a writer. Once I created stories. Once I told truths.

Life and stress have dulled the vivid springs in my imagination. The technicolor jungle has been enveloped in dark shadows. The fairies and sprites do not dance as much, there is no music.

Occasionally, I feel footsteps. I hear the rushing waters and drum beats in the distance. I long to follow them to that place so beautiful and brilliant. I hope to catch a glimpse of words frolicking, joining together creating dazzling stories. I hope to catch them. I hope to set my fingers free once more to dance on the keyboard.

I want to tell stories.

I want to tell truths.

I want to shout once again, I am a writer.