Wordless

Why is it that sometimes I can write, and other times words only come out in stutters? I think it is like groundwater, my emotions liquid below the surface. Sometimes the water level rises, comes close to the top crust as if to breach its shell. It never manages to break through, but it pushes the boundaries. It is during these times that I write, when I speak without conscious understanding.

Words flow rich like rivers and I am simply swept along with them, to look at what has been said after and wonder at the person who wrote. It is as if these rising waters speak my secrets, whisper them into my ear, sing them to my heart. They dance to a melody that hovers beyond my ears, beyond what I know, as if remembering a past I cannot recall.

But when the water subsides, words slip back beneath the earth, slide down deep within me into a quiet cave. With them go the meaning of my memories. Then the words that do find their way out are dry, are parched. And I find myself staring across a grainy flatland beneath a still azure sky that goes on for miles; it simply breaks and breaks your heart as you wonder at its expanses, its wildness, the way you stand alone in the middle of nowhere and have no words.