It rings out from empty pages and forgotten journals.
It follows me as I watch TV and sit in the garden admiring the red of the robins chest.
I want to do something about it but resistance grips me and another day goes by without a word written or a story shared.
I can only tell you that when the time is right self expression will return. For now it seems there is more to be imagined and more dreams to unfold.
The life of a writer is never an easy one. The tortured soul of a writers hand will always hate the silence.