I do often find a pen in my hand when my heart is not moved to write. And more often than not do I feel my heart moved to write when neither pen nor paper can be found. Oh writer's block, thou art a tease.

So now I set out for a cure, yes, a cure to banish this blockage.

Walk with me, won't you?

See this old, forgotten path here, tangled vines strewn about. Grass drapes over a shallow shore to a blue and sparkling river. This path runs along this river, small purple flowers peeking out between the blades of grass. Further on there are trees that grow dense and dark. The path plunges straight into the heart of this wood. Beyond, in shadow, lies things that I cannot here tell. Things that are, things that were, and things that cannot happen unless you act now.

We've come this far together, old friend. We've kicked the vines aside and made this old path new again. Here, we look on sacred ground trod by many feet before us, feet of those far greater than small you and I. Come with me into the shade of these trees. Who knows what we may find in this shadow? Tears, laughter, fear, epiphany...

We will find something. Something great. Inside we will find ourselves. This path here is a path we have not traveled since we were young like these new blades of grass. A path of imagination and dreams, a path we left when someone told us it was all a lie.

No friend, we had it right the first time. This path of wild, untamed dreaming is that which we must take if we want to find beauty and truth. Life is becoming more like fiction every day, and fiction is becoming more and more predictable.

Kick away these vines and venture into shadow where you might find a muse to write.

And above all, you must not be afraid of what you might find. Words do sting the hands that write them sometimes.

Onward. We lift our pens and step into shadow, determind to discover the story out heart is trying to tell.