Flex, ye once-dexterous fingers! Reawaken faith in your granted puissance!
Are ye not those same that once skipped o'er keyboard? Articulating? Expounding? Positing? Did ye not, in your lent glory, give form to weeping angels, rioting demons?
There was a time when ye were not afraid; when, together, we would give voice to it all and damn the snarled lip, the pinched brow.
What, now? Has the madness of the time rendered mute our passion? Doth suffocating dread now rule our heart?
We have known, we do know, the solution. Which is to write. To write every day.
Arduous? Yes. Frightening? Yes.
But also vital. To write is to live. With humility. With sincerity. With peace.
Bring it.
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