Yesterday, I went to put pen to paper and no ink came out. I took the pen apart and tried to get the ink to flow. All the pieces fell to the floor. In the ink shaft, I found a space of air between the ink and the tip. And I couldn’t figure out how to get rid of it.

Tonight, I started to try to write about how words aren’t coming easily lately. It feels as though there’s a fountain inside of me where words sit just below the surface, but I can’t get them out. And it occurred to me that maybe my heart is like that pen. Something is clogging it, keeping it from flowing freely. The words are stuck, and I can’t get them out.

Unlike the pen though, my heart beats and fills anew each day. If I can’t figure out how to unclog it, it is bound to explode. My only hope is that the explosion will create something beautiful and its wake.