The Flowing Words that will Not Be Stopped

I miss the words that used to flow like ocean waves from my fingertips. 

Like the tides they would present themselves. 

They were reliable, they were my lifeline. 

And then so much changed and I think I could barely figure out myself let alone the words to express it. 
I lost myself somewhere. 
I lost the words that were so precious to me and I curled up into the shell that I had created and decided that the world was bleak and I was better off cutting myself loose. 

To produce words would mean to process and I did not want to process. Processing can mean pain, and my little shell was comfortable and dark, but manageable. 

Processing was not manageable. 

So the words packed themselves into a box and decided not to bother me. Since I was rather snappy it was probably better for them anyways. 

But despite my resistance the words kept pressing against the tips of my fingers, begging to be written. Maybe my identity was a little bit lost, maybe my purpose uncertain and my ego hurt, but there were still words that wanted to be pushed into the sea. 

So I sat and I decided to let my soul move my fingers, no matter the result. 

To write, for me, is to live. 

The tides are moving and from this point forward they will not be stopped.