I don’t believe in writer’s block. If the words seem to not obey is because they know that for whatever they would be used would be worthless babble about unimportant or self important matters of subject. And to that, they do not want to be subjected. There is always a reason for silence. Those moments that appear tranquil, that beg for no sound, no word, no motion from anyone, arrive for a reason. To hush the urgency. To show how soothing time aimlessly passing can be. Silently seeing one’s soul crushed on a grey Sunday morning without the words to make sense. But there is a moment of stillness and without that moment, all words would lose their power. There is no such thing as a writer unable to write. That writer simply has nothing to say. Oftentimes the inability to create curls back to an unfounded notion of talentless-ness, but far from this being the case, I believe that there is much more talent in staying silent than there is in writing endlessly. Sentences that run on, chasing their own tails and in turn each other. Making sense to nobody, only being tiny bricks of a masterfully thought out building of cacophony. Then the words are overused and abused and become strangers to themselves. And this is why the writer must sometimes remain silent.
If there was no need for immediacy, then all writers would gladly succumb to the occasional silence of their souls. If only we were a little more patient, letting our hearts grow hungry and heavy, then the words to surface would be that of worth and value. With each sentence having the life span of a match, the flames flicker for a while, but then the light dies. With that the frail little bodies of the sweetly short, middle sized or lengthily run-on sentences collapse into oblivion. An abyss they surely will never have the strength to leave. Their creator now says there’s a block, but taking better care of the words that were set loose would have resulted in no blockage, just a fearless flight. Each writer tries to quench the urgency of productivity, creativity, the need to be seen now, heard now, read now, listened to now. Now is urgently screaming for now.
If there was no sadness in silence, then no cathartic eruption could result in words flowing again. Disappointment and desperation show the way to silence, who in turn shows the way to light. But there has to be a wait. The heart should not be forced to break and heal in one day. The torn soul should not be stretched between the ebb and flow.
Patiently I wait with time. I wait for the words and the words for me. Nothing blocks all what isn’t there. If my heart wants more than it can have, if my soul thinks love has been found, if my crying eyes miss the strangers from my life, then the stillness of the moment comes to hush all sounds and ground my wandering words to anchor on my soul’s infinite sea. I do them justice by letting them use me. I bend to give them way. I bow before their grace. I stay like the sparrow, kind and faithful and loving. Free to roam the lands and come back with words that make me brave to see the brokenness, make me strong and bold, unafraid to love. Because I do, still, love.
