locket & tacks

[shapeofthings]

I'm not sure where my words have gone. The incessant internal monologue that bubbled forth is drought-stricken, or perhaps dammed. Such mental silence is altogether novel; the shock of a mental blank page. Pulling together every sentence with conscious effort only to edit, edit, edit, delete. Where are my words?

For now I'll talk in pictures. They tumble before me in a fountain of unstoppable colour, splashing metaphor at my feet. So much to say with light and shade.

I never thought I'd miss the white noise. One day, I'll tell you how I am.