I hate not having words in my heart, being constantly trapped in the dark, my mind exploding with ideas and no way to get them on paper. These hands of mind constantly wringing, hoping to wring the truth straight from my bones because they have direct access to the blood, that goes and flows all through my body, twisting and turning until finally reaching that organ so big and full and large pumping and pushing, red as the sun as it sets in the west, from my bedroom I see it. My heart beats like that. And as I feel it set and watch it beat I wonder if words will ever creep from the spaces in my mind onto something tangible and real so that they become real. Because what are words if they are not spoken, what are words if they are not written down. And then I wonder if all this means I’m not as real as I think, am I as fragile as the flowers pushed by the wind and trampled by the steps of children running and laughing, unaware of their breakability, only seeing the future never seeing that it ends too soon, am I like that and only now seeing that this silence is more than just a writer’s block but more like a wake up call, that the words I can’t form on my lips are the silence of my soul.