Jan 27, 2011 -
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Sunlight warms my pale skin, leaving shimmering kisses where it filters through the leaves. They sway in the breeze, a happy rustling mixing with the sound of water rolling over rocks and dirt. I can smell the earth baking in the light. Shadows dance over my blank page. I breathe in the sensations of this place, expanding, over flowing. This is my home, my haven. It fuels my creativity, much like the sun nurtures the flowers.
But it’s been ripped away, that place where my ideas come from. Moving was not a new beginning. Rather, it’s a purgatory, an unmoving interim between what was and what will be my home. I’m stuck, frozen, and my passion, my life, reflects that. My words, once a flowing faucet, are now caught, not even so much as a drop of creativity to be seen.
