Parched

My writing muse has probably deserted me forever. A long time ago, the words used to flow easily. They were never deliberate, never intended to save anyone's soul but mine. Now, it is a painstaking struggle to say what I feel about life, loss and love. Especially love.

So much so that I have to borrow other people's lines. They're Pablo Neruda's this time:

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing...

I crave a return to simpler days. When a pen and paper (not the laptop) would do more beautifully. Walking on foot and spending a good few solitary hours staring at a church, instead of hopping on the tourist bus. Praying and actually having faith.