even the words they fail me

It occurs to me that I actually wrote something today that turns out to be true, even when inspected later from a different angle. See, I have been falling off the face of the earth with alarming frequency of late. And while I've sort of developed that habit over the last few years, this is the first time in my memory that it's become this acute. When writing to a friend today, I noted that this is the first time in my life that I've felt words are not infinite.

Let's face it- most of the time, I take ten times the amount of words most people would to get to a very simply point. But all of a sudden, all of an arresting sudden, the amount of words I have in me has become finite.

My fingers are crossed that this is just to do with transitions and adjustments and adaptation, that I'm just temporarily speechless. And I do mean that, that my fingers are crossed, that I am really hoping. There is something about writing (especially here in the blogosphere) that is so selfish that it feels indulgent. But more than that, much more than that, I've somehow convinced myself that writing is part and parcel to my wellbeing.

I've been speechless before, but for very different reasons. In the past, speechlessness has meant that actually I have a lot to say. A lot that cuts too close, that is raw and exposed. It's not that there weren't words- it's that I was deliberately stuffing them back inside. This is very different. But even so, I still find this silence problematic.