Sometimes I don't have words. Not because a particular event has stolen them or left me bereft—although that can happen, also—no, instead, it's because there aren't any. I wander around the empty halls of my echoing imagination with only my steps disappearing in the silence.
No panicking. Been through this before. The words will come. They always do. I can feel them out there in the shadows, lurking in the woods, obscured by the clouds in the rose-tinged sky. But they will return. Probably late in the night or early in the morning or at a wedding or maybe the dentist—wherever it's most inconvenient. The words are like that. They require inconvenience and sometimes sacrifice.
Everything good requires a price. The price is what makes such things valuable. If we don't pay for what we have, how then do we know its value? That is a hard truth, but it is wisdom of a sort.
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