There are times when I hit a wall mentally, skull meeting brick, and all of my words tumble out of my mouth, letters in a scattered pile.  I am mute, a painful prison for one who breathes prose.  I feel it, feel the sickening clouds rolling overhead, but cannot cry out and explain my plight.  I withdraw.  I cocoon.  I shelter myself from…. what?  Help?  Solace?

I’m forever clawing my way up the mountain alone, it seems.  I’m compelled to, each time it looms.  And usually, halfway up, I relent, and decide, “That’s good enough.”

But it’s not.  How I wish I were brave enough to see what lies further above…

Day 227 :  Brave – Idina Menzel