Echo of the Soul

It’s difficult to write when the pen feels heavy, the words heavier.

Silence is just easy; lazy apathy.

It’s been a while, maybe too long of a while, since I let my thoughts, my musings, freely flow like ink on a page.

I don’t know why I allow so much time to fly, why I let the days pass without acknowledging the friend within myself who wishes to be let out.

Perhaps, though, it is the fear, the vulnerability, which keeps her inside. The pain of sharing with only silence as a response, a companion.

Better rejection than silence.

At least it’s honest.

Silence, though, forces you to wait, compels you to hope, in spite of to whatever bitterness you think you cling.

Perhaps, then, my silence is but an echo of my soul, longing for hope in a broken world of sorrow.

Perhaps we are all silent, voices raw from the pain and tears which have fed us for so long.

Only—it is here in the silence, when all is stripped away and bare, we are capable of hearing an answer, of finding that hope.