Broken Rose Colored Glasses

         Where do I go from here? Writing used to come so easy. Words seemed to flow from the depths of my soul onto the page and transform themselves into a story before my eyes. I don't remember ever struggling to find the ideas that filled my head. They were just there in abundance crying out to be written down on paper. And oh the thrill of taking my blue ink pen in hand, turning to a fresh sheet in my spiral bound notebook and writing that first sentence. Perhaps then I could have found some beautiful poetic language to describe the euphoria of that moment, but the ability to describe it seems to have disapeared along with the ideas. Where have they gone and why?

         Is it because I grew up? Did my imagination shrivel up and die when I passed a certain age? Maybe I could blame it all on college and the numerous essays that quickly became so boring to write. Or the computer! At some point I threw away my ever present notebook and sat down in front of a glaring computer screen to tap out my writing on a jumble of lettered black keys. Inspiration must have withered under the harsh electronic light. When did I actually stop writing? Looking back I can't remember. I only know that somewhere along the way I lost something that I had always treasured and embraced.

         When recently I found an old manila folder filled with stories I had written in the fifth and sixth grade, I was amazed by the colorful language and depth of emotion I found. How could an eleven year old girl write such stories? And how is it that the same girl at twenty seven can't. Did I become so busy that life drowned out the voice inside my heart? Really though, I think the answer is not a certain age, or an idea devouring computer, or a hectic life, but broken rose colored glasses. The year when I learned that life can really hurt I lost my imagination.