Something is very wrong.
My brain, once alight with metaphors and imagery, has sunken into a pit that it cannot escape from.
I am not going through any major emotional turmoil right now, nor have I been for the past few months. And yet when I put pen to paper, I am stuck.
Where my pen once swirled with the sensations of each of the senses, there is now a blank page. Where my mind raced with ideas for stories and poems, it has remained stagnant.
I am a singer, a painter, a calligraphy artist, a friend, a daughter, a sister, and a (future) godmother. But above all else, I am a writer. I am a storyteller. My words are my watercolors as I paint them across pages and send them into the world.
But right now there is paint thinner where everything used to shine.
I hope this explains my prolonged absence from zarbmusing, but I also hope this little post is enough for me to find my vibrant colors again.
