This past month (or few) I have sat down multiple times to write posts about various and sundry thoughts or ideas and been unable to make them come together. Unable to say what I thought I was going to say. Not out loud anyways.
I'm finding renewed value in the privacy of my journal where I can hash things out raw and without concern for nuance (and without audience). I'm finding renewed value in getting back into the images of things. Really, words aren't my forte. I hit brick walls every time I try to put things into words. Don't get me wrong, I keep coming back to them. I LOVE words and reading and writing them. But I found that lately they are failing me. Or I'm failing them. Whichever.
And it also feels that I'm changing my mind, rapidly, about things I hadn't anticipated changing. It a private process, changing from what you were to, well, whatever it is that you will be next. There is an embarrassing element of inconsistency about it. It really dims the desire to make statements about it or to try to define it while "it" is still a mess of floating things not nailed down.
So, I'm finding a renewed value in just being quiet for a while (sort of a twist on 'if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all').
And wouldn't it be ironic if just by saying this it opens up the floodgates and I suddenly find all sorts of things to say?