It's been impossible for me to write anything comprehensible over the last long while. My life hasn't been anything that I really want to reflect on or even take in and acknowledge. I caught myself telling a friend this evening that I used to be a writer. Used to be... Am I not any more? Is it possible to have writers block for two years?

I'm learning that I need to rediscover myself, I need to take up my old hobbies and figure out what makes me smile, what makes me feel alive. I've been living under a blanket of fear and survival... and I could explain what that means but I'm not even sure myself.

I've seen and experienced things over the last two years that make me feel like I've been in a war zone. The stories and the experiences in themselves are nothing special but gathered up together and set into the fabric of the last two years of my life.... well it leaves me speechless.

And that's why I haven't been writing.

What can I say when I'm sitting across the room from a mother who's daughter was kidnapped and forced into prostitution? What can I say when the former drug dealer tells me he would have sold his child, if he had one, for drugs? What can I say to the prostitute who tells me there's no hope?

I'm silenced. I don't understand it. I don't get why the child is on the street. I don't know why there's such poverty. I don't get why there's such pain. I can't understand it. It shouldn't be but it is.

And I walk through it all, I observe it all, I see the pain but I can't do anything about it.