I stand at the bank of the place where my words used to be. Shore to shore there is nothing but sand, endless and soft. I stare at it, thinking of essays, notes, journal entries–all the waves of words that have washed upon this land. But there is nothing today.
As a writer, words are an oasis in the middle of life’s desert. You count on them to be there. And when they evaporate in the sun without you even noticing it’s a bit startling.
Oh, they’ll come back. Just when you think you’ll waste away from thirsting for syllables, vowels, and the rythm of a good sentence the rains will come again. First a drop, small and perfect–perhaps as tiny as “the” or “my.” You’ll lift your hands to the sky, uncertainly, because it has been awhile now. And you’ll feel the splash of phrases upon your palms and pen.
Then it will be a downpour, flash flood, beautiful words washing in, over, and around you. That barren place fills again with lovely, new water. Everything smells bright and fresh. Life has returned. Hope has come.
But until then you wait, poised, watching the skies, listening for the sound of thunder somewhere within your heart…
