The black line of the cursor blinks, keeping time against the blank white screen. My freshly polished nails rest on the smooth keys, in ready position waiting to tap their familiar beat. But my fingers don’t move. Nothing moves except the cursor I’m staring at. Hypnotized, I sit frozen on the outside. On the inside my soul begs for words to emerge, thoughts to form. But there’s nothing but a paralysis of sorts.
I can’t name it. I can’t see it. But my mind and heart feel heavy and oppressive with both the presence of too much (of what exactly I do not know other than to feebly describe as a sensation of millions of molecules darting around in a blurred, cramped chaos) and the presence of a fear induced stillness, like being lost and confused in a void of emptiness and loneliness.
I’m a paradox of being too full and empty at the same time.
I’m a paradox of too much inner movement and absolute outer stillness.
How do I start?
At first I think the question refers to the words I want to write, but it beckons me and takes me deeper. This isn’t about the words.
Questions multiply and breed spiderwebs of thoughts. They further complicate, confuse, and frustrate me. I’m stuck, but I struggle to escape and write.
I am not stranger to deep sorrow or walking through the valleys trials bring. There was a time years ago when I wrote through the wounds of brokenness and each word wrriten was like a healing stitch administered with skill and ease.
But in this season… it’s so different. In this season my heart gives birth to words and they are met by shards of glass, shredding and destroying them.
Friends gently remind me, “You don’t have to write about this season you’re in.” They are kind and speak wisdom. And they are right, but they don’t know that I can’t write around it. Somehow I have to find a way to write through it.
And yet, I’m still left asking, How? What do I write? How do I start?