The blank page stares back at me.
For the first time, I am wordless.
Before, when I could not write, it was not from lack of words; whether because of my own stubborn rebellion or because of my fear of the words I had, I refused to write. I was not incapable.
But without words, you cannot write.
So I sit and I stare, and the blank page stares back.
I put down my pen.
Maybe words aren’t always necessary. Maybe there is a place for quiet. Maybe there is a time for action. Maybe we should be still more often, and simply be.
Maybe we can find joy in existing, and not need to speak of it.
The simple joy of nearness. The joy of beholding beauty. Of glances and motions, unspoken thoughts and dreams. Maybe it would be better for there to be fewer words altogether. Or better words.
Maybe my words are no longer necessary.
Maybe I should not write.
But no, there is also a time for words, words given and words received, for listening and writing and reading and talking—
And suddenly the right words burst into my mind, fully-formed–
And I pick up my pen, and set it to the paper, and write–
Once upon a time, there lived a girl whose name was Sorrow.