I haven’t written in some time and a part of me has the urge to scribble something down before this temporary lack of writing becomes something permanent. However, whenever I sit down to write nowadays, my pen lays at a standstill and the words that had once spent countless hours knocking on the doors of my mind are now, completely silent. Perhaps fatigue has kidnapped and stowed them away, or perhaps they had become tired of waiting outside of a door that would so often refuse to be opened, and so they left. Either way, once I had finally opened my doors again, the words were no longer to be found. Words that had once so faithfully drifted out of my hands when my mouth could not paint the picture that I was trying to portray are now absent from the barren lengths of my fingers. What a tragedy this is that now lays straggled before me.

Come home my words, these pages are empty and forlorn and my hands feel inadequate and incomplete, without you.

Come home. The doors are wide open.