Back When I Was a Writer

It was more than ten minutes, but less than ten years. And when did that time, that sweet time, end? I don’t know. Maybe two years ago. Maybe three.

I hear whispers now, but is there a voice or is it only nostalgia or disappointment in myself? Why does my head, that hard boulder on top of my shoulders, say “No?” Where did my “Yes” go?

Be quiet now. It’s okay. This is not writing.