I can’t write.

Sometimes it happens. The material is there. And the thoughts are spun. But I just can’t bring myself to sit at the loom. Or as Buddha might have methaphor-ed it, “my cup is full”; and with no space left to fill up, I haven’t anything to pour out. So I’m off (to the fronteras of my insides) to sit in my space, silence, and stillness, where there I hope to slowly drain the flood of turbulent emotions and experiences that currently reside inside. And as soon as I find my full of emptiness, my tin cup of words will rattle again.

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