Writing about not writing, but writing

Lately, life has left me speechless, mute, uninspired.

I write of fires, losses, ashes muddied by tears. I write of voodoo,
weddings, sex, love, faraway lands. I write fiction and once again
dabble in poetry.

Feeling too much like the tarot card with the naked woman pouring out
jugs of water from both hands into a river, emptying herself with
nothing coming in, I hoard my writing.

I write inside out, no skin to protect.

I know I must grow out of this as what is the point of writing if not
to share and, once shared, the writing becomes a new creation with
the reader.

But right now such sharing seems too vulnerable, either exposed to
eyes I cannot see watching or exposing myself to eyes that refuse to
look.

I do not know which is worse.

I shouldn't care.

It is lonely. Writing and hoarding.

I miss the dialogue, the just knowing someone other than I has read
the bit of my heart and soul I was able to put into words and
symbols, to identify and, for a moment, to understand.