What are you afraid of? she asks.
Too frightened even to acknowledge fear. Excuses of every kind, an absence of words, no thoughts to speak of or write about. I fear there is nothing for me to say.
Let words come, she whispers, easy, joyful, thoughtful words flowing effortlessly, tumbling from pen to paper. And more words will follow down the flooded channel.
You have nothing to be afraid of — trust the pen, trust the paper, trust the words into sentences into paragraphs, into essays and books. Something inside of you will be said. Open the gates of creation and all things will fall into order. Or disorder, but altogether satisfying.
You are safe, she assures me, in words. ♨