I took a short break. Sometimes I have nothing to say. My mind is full of words and conversations and monologues, but I have no inclination to write them down. Even a simple what I did today feels too much or too unimportant or trite. I was a prolific writer once -- I authored a travel book and two novels and translated two books; I wrote several hundred articles for different publications, filled countless notebooks with observations and quotations and odd facts. But as times has gone on, I find I use less words and more images.
I found this in one of my old notebooks: "Learning to love differently is hard, love with the hands wide open, love with the doors banging on their hinges, the cupboard unlocked..." -- Marge Piercy.