Even the most splendid pen runs out of ink. She had endured half a decade of literary winter and creative desert, in huge contrast to the lush half decade of plenty. And no matter if it were Bic or Mont Blanc, she just simply ran out of ink.
Her mother once told her, "You aren't gonna wear yourself out, you gonna rust out!" So maybe she hadn't run out of ink; maybe she simply allowed her soul's salve to dry up. Pity. Because rumor had it that she was a real talent. Sacrilege. Because it was cruel neglect of the Divine. Blasphemy. Because who could doubt God's promise?
Whatever the circumstances, her pen stood still for almost 5 years, when once she couldn't keep it from bleeding upon her journals, her books, her homework, schoolwork. Even her napkins were not safe. Now she waited for the numbness to wear off. To be inspired. By something. 5 long winters. Harsh winds. Drought. Barren lands. Only small buds every now and then that petered out prematurely. No jewels on the dew of daybreak. Just a struggle to make it all make sense. To understand. To make the puzzle pieces of life fit together from moment to moment. A constant sheet of gray. This was her introduction to her 20s. She was on the cusp of knowing.
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