Listen, of course you are still a writer, the woman whispered to herself.
Of course you are still a creative being, stitches once fell from your fingers and the-cloth-of-a-thousand-stories once knew you by name.
You are only tired.
You are only still holding the edges of the wound from whence your mother escaped this world for the other place, the God-place where she was once sent from.
Listen, you are still all of these things, but also the exquisite weight of being alive has climbed into your bones and hardened like concrete and you spend your hours searching for water, to dilute it, to wash it from your marrow.
Listen, even though your limbs might change shape, lock themselves into a new position, just keep breathing.
Listen, this is only a season.
Listen, this will change.
You are not lost, little one, only not where you once were, only not where you thought you would be.
liezel graham 