Nomad Writer

I am afraid. That sole thought paces my skull like an echo of frantic footsteps over wooden floors. I am afraid that I no longer recognize who I am…or was when I first began writing here.

I am afraid I no longer have that mind from which creative thought had bloomed — in an almost peculiar way.

I am afraid I’m now standing in the barren remains. Dried earth with large fissures I could fall through if I’m not careful.

I am afraid that what still may exist within me to say or write may not matter anymore.