I don’t write anymore. Perhaps the ink has trickled to a stop. Maybe my thoughts have deserted me. Maybe I don’t see the little things, I don’t appreciate the nuances, the whispers I used to hear. My mind was a word processor. My eyes typed, my ears embellished with punctuation, my tongue italicized. I lived in a world of words- how should I describe as precisely as possible the vivid sky? How do I shade the ribbons of gold on the fields into monochrome? I had tried to translate the world into words but now I find I do it less and less.
On a road trip not so long ago. I drank in the beauty of the english countryside- its peaceful hills, its tempestuous shores. I looked, and loved. And that was all.
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