Your word count plummets, your internal morale plummets, you think there may be a connection between your well-being and how much the words are flowing through you. A lifetime in writing, you cannot be surprised when you are a shallow husk without it.
Returns to the valley are surprising, quiet drifts of snow toppling over the mountains and silencing the beyond. Time moves in its own strange machinations, the deer make their way down from the hills, each day has a moment when you think nothing else matters but staring into the sunlight and marveling at the world.
You think maybe you should be making more of those moments in a day.
November approaches in a speed all its own, your life approaches in a speed unknown, ten years ago you could have never guessed this is how your life would turn out but if you had to do it all again, what would you really change?
The words come out jumbled, crooked, rusty. But out they come, and it feels like a win all its own.
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