Fear has kept me away. Fear of being consumed, of pouring myself out, wringing my heart and mind until there is nothing left. Fear is a powerful motivator but it paralyzes more often than it gives wings. My fingers and thumb curl to meet each other as if I still held a pen but it has been many years and the ink has run dry. In the varnished brass of the inkwell, my reflection glares back at me, accusing me of unspeakable horror.

I have stayed away, denying my writing for years, keeping my thoughts to myself.

I don’t know if I have lost my hearing, or you your voice.

My life has become the world seen reflected in a filthy puddle- the sounds, faint; the colors, muted. Words come slower as if I am fishing them out of dark polluted waters.

I am left with the ashes of the past. There is no reconstituting the fragments.

Returning to the black pool, I wonder if I made the right decision. Time is no one’s friend. I used to think I would drown in there but without writing my life has been less.

Life.

Less.