I am lost. I am done for. I cannot find words. It is a constipated effort. I sit and think of what I’d like to write and nothing comes. I am blank. I go about my daily routine, which in the past has given me potent insights to put to words. Again I am blank. I spoke to some one, who I love and respect. I thought I could bring my writing “closer to home.” I am stalled. No words will come. I am shut down. I am terrified. What if I cannot write? What will I do when no more words, with their beauty and passion, burst forth from my soul have no where to go? My chest heaves with a heaviness even I can’t explain except to say my words have no place to go. I am so broken in time.