Writer's Constipation

I'm not sure I'd call it writer's block, so much as writer's constipation. It's all in there, just jammed up. Every once in a while, a thought breaks loose, and I can follow it for a short while, but never for long. Certainly not for long enough. But at least I have a full sized keyboard back. I had been without for far too long.

I missed it.

I miss writing. I miss falling in love with a time and place that's all my own, then sharing it because my mind isn't big enough to hold it all at once. I miss the feeling I get after I finish a piece...or a piece of a piece. The emotional exhaustion, combined with the high of just wanting more, of feeling more but more isn't left. More has to wait until I find my place again.

I miss the quiet. The kind that surrounds me like a cloud while my thoughts form and dissipate. The way the room sounds when it's full of thoughts that don't have words until my fingers find the right keys. The way I can relax into myself, no worries.

I miss this.

But I'm finding it again.

Piece by piece.

Peace by peace.