I haven't been writing.
Not like I used to.
I've been staying close to the surface.
Scribbling but not deep diving.
I know it will hurt.
This time it might hurt more than just me.
So I pause.
I ponder.
I day dream.
I sketch.
But I hardly write.
I've been dabbling with words but never taking them over the edge.
On the days that I do write, I stop short.
Never reaching that space that I've been waiting to write from.
The space inside that holds everything...
Holds my treasures.
Holds my fears.
Holds my secrets.
Holds the memories I couldn't process.
This.
This inner space has been preserved.....
Has a fortress of protection.
Has been waiting
Has been holding onto every story I couldn't write tell until now.