I pick up my pen and paper to write, but my head is blank, empty of words. Blank like a clean lonely slate that will never know the pleasure of words written on it for company, empty like the hollowness of nothing. I feel like a soul still searching for purpose and meaning and finding none, begins to believe anything that offers even the smallest succour, that offers a way out even if it's the wrong way out.

I stare at the pen and paper before me, looking for a way out. I beg them to help me find my lost words, I even begin to pray to them to help me out of the never-ending abyss of wordlessness I am falling into, but they seem to be enjoying my misery. The pen develops a human shape and I see mockery and scorn written all over its face. From nowhere hands appear on the pen and I see its index finger pointed at me as it begins to laugh at me. The paper is not left out and it is like it has found some invisible friend in the wind, a new friend that gives it a voice, for with each ruffle of wind and paper words come rushing out from the paper, 
entering my head and leaving (like they never really came) before. I can trap them in my head or write them down.

I have lost my words, they have finally packed their bags and luggage and deserted me too just like him, just like everything I have loved and cared for in my miserable life. For a long time now my words have been my friends and companions, my refuge from loneliness, my everything after losing everything. Now I'm afraid even they do not care about me anymore.

I don't know why it is the ones we love the most that leave us or get taken away from us. My head swims with questions - why? I shout. Wasting my time, my energy on answers that may never come. I think the answers have already drowned long before the questions took a plunge into the same drowning waters.

There once was a time when all I had to do to get my muse, my mojo, my writing back was to take a walk. The natural scenery always worked for me, but not anymore. Now I think even if I take a walk from here to eternity I will still be in the same position I started from 'nothing'. Maybe it is because almost all of the scenic beauty that used to work for me has been taken over by greedy, selfish houses and factories that have no love in their hearts for such natural scenic beauty. The little that is left just can't work that beautiful magic on me.

Sometimes I pick up pieces of my old writing for comfort, but they are not enough and I find myself regretting why I burned the pieces I felt were useless and below my talent. I started writing long before I could afford computers and smartphones and I never got round to putting most of my older pieces in these modern devices. All I want to do is write. I miss the good old days when all I had to do was to pick up pen and paper and the words just started flowing, from where I'm not really sure. Maybe their are invisible hands at work whispering silent words into my ears, into my head or maybe the words come from some deeply buried part of me, a part even I do not know of.

Whatever it is though, I hope I find a way to get my words back and continue to do what I love most.

PS
Even though I can't write anymore, I can still read. So let me say a big thank you to all of you who write on this website and other platforms, ( you know who you are ) you have no idea what your writing does to me. I remain eternally grateful to you all.