If I find Ludo, I’ll let you know

Why is it so difficult to write?

Words, music….

Lately all my notebooks are brick walls.
Brick walls with nothing to say and no reflection.  Too slippery to hold my thoughts.

[I guess these particular brick walls are moss covered…]  

Maybe it’s a matter of becoming my own again. 
Maybe I’m trying to write for someone other than myself. 
Maybe there are seasons, and this is just one of “those” seasons.

Of course I’m just rambling now.
These words, they don’t mean anything.
They’re just a way for me to write myself out of a moss covered brick walled maze.

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