My words have dried up. It is not a great place to be. Where in the past, they flowed out of me endlessly, and I had no trouble imagining always having something to write about, now I struggle. I come up with ideas, ponder them, and then throw them back. I try writing and may get a paragraph out, maybe two, and then I either have to quit because of time constraints, or I’m unhappy with how it’s sounding. I don’t want to be here. I want to write. I’m hoping this is temporary. Maybe even seasonal. I read other’s words and admire them for being able to put their thoughts down so clearly, so purposefully, and even humorously. Yet I struggle.