When the words dry up

I can speak.

Loudly. Boldly. Even eloquently.

Always quickly.

Often peppered with examples or stories

Or with seemingly endless questions.

Words can flow out of my mouth with relative ease

It seems.

That’s what they all think.

That’s what they all say.

That’s what they all believe.

I know better, though.

It’s an illusion.

Because speaking, for me, from me

Is at best a hybrid between

Innumerable scripts I’ve learned/created,

A complicated mental flow chart,

And impulse.

It’s not sophisticated, no matter how it appears

It’s not easy

And it dang sure ain’t natural.

It’s necessary,

And even occasionally pleasant

But it’s always foreign,

Always work.

My real speech,

My real voice,

Was born of words.

Words in my head,

Words from my heart,

Words I write,

Words I type.

They are me,

I am them.

They are my realism. My authenticity.

My voice.

My soul’s expression.

But lately my soul is broken

Beaten

Weakened

Lost

Jaded

Defeated

Betrayed

Crapped on.

My heart is bleeding

My mind is reeling

I “look” okay

I “sound” the same

But I’m not.

Not at all.

I once thought I was strong

I once thought I could endure

I believed it, deeply

And now I know I was wrong

My strength is depleted

My endurance drained

My reality? Shaken

Everything...emptied.

I have only the energy

To go through the motions.

No vitality

No spark

No ingenuity

I can just exist

Can just hold on

Can just wait

I can’t do anything else.

What am I waiting for? I don’t know.

But I’m here.

As It’s not over yet

I just have to be,

Exist,

Keep going.

My words...

Gone.

My voice...

Silenced.

I can’t write like I once could.

I have lost my voice.

I have nothing

Without my voice.

I have nothing -

Nothing to say.

Nothing comes -

Ever.

Empty,

Quiet,

A coffin of silence

That doesn’t end.

I have nothing,

Nothing to say.

No words come,

No thoughts come.

Imprisoned by the vacuous words

From my lips.

That sound like the right thing to say.

They are hollow

But they are all that’s left.

A shell of me.

My pen stilled,

My keyboard dusty.

My mind frazzled,

My words trapped

Somewhere.

I have nothing,

Nothing to say.

My family is intact - for now.

My life, by the world’s standards, is good.

I am fine

Fine.

Just fine!

Right?

Only I’m not.

Not at all.

I didn’t want it to happen.

I don’t know how to fix it.

I don’t know how to stop it.

When the words dry up, what do you do?

When the words dry up, what do you have?

When the words dry up, who then are you?

Photo credit: Image obtained from Sacred Beauty blog