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Don't know when I wrote this. Can't remember the last time I did. But this still is true.

It’s a scary thing, realising you haven’t written in a long time. It’s  even scarier when you sit with your dashboard open and nothing comes to you. What if you can’t do it any more?  Why has it happened to you? Do you recognise yourself? Where is that voice in  your head that told you what to do? Have you killed it with your indifference? What are you doing wrong? Something so natural something so easy, now seems like a huge burden to lift. Has all your time run out? You’ve killed that voice in your head. You let it starve so long, you ignored it. You’ve killed it. Now your head is empty, like everyone else’s. Now you will feel sadness, like everyone else, now you will be plain like everyone else. You’ve lost your gift.

Did you have it at all?  Or was it an illusion? If it was a part of you why did it leave?

There was once a song bird, who sang such soulful songs. Such beautiful music, it made the grass weep. The soul in her music gave her the strength to be. The soul of her music made her believe. A song that’s soulful is the song that’s sad , they say. And the song bird was of course sad. She pined for the rose deeply. The bird’s longing became the soul of her music. The rose did bloom near the bird one day and her happiness knew no bounds. But she loved the rose so much she forgot to sing.