There was a time I was inspired by fine writing, racing from page read to page written. No longer true, perhaps because of the superb quality I have lately encountered, but I am intimidated instead, content to quiver in the shadow of literary excellence. And story turns in on itself.
Yet the urge is still strong, and as I lose those that provided some comfort in communication, I turn even more inward seeking some depth but get lost in the murkiness of soul and retreat. So the words should come out, but they’re not allowed to meet ear nor eye.
But the pain hammers away at the base of my skull, the tension of feeling and words striking bone.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology