Fear

There is something about

not writing

that makes me nervous

I wonder about it in still moments

between the talking or folding

and I wonder if my thinking

would be different if I were still writing

I think about it as a microscope

or a telescope perhaps

telling me tiny truths in larger crowds

or making simple statements about the stars

Neither of these are really true

I'm out of practice I'm sorry

but rather it's more that writing is the lens

it bends all the scattered moments of my day

into a beam all tight and focused

bright enough to burn

and now I am merely driftwood

with the sand piling up around me and

it's nice you know.

like burying your toes in the sand

and you flex against the weight of it

and pretend for a second that you cannot stand again

This is what I am pretending

or at least telling myself that I am pretending.

In the middle of the afternoon

when things are bright and busy and

I have no spare hand to guide my thoughts

the sentence hits me like a tripwire

and my breath is lost.

What if I cannot write anymore.

I am not writing because I cannot.