Finding the Fishes

Sometimes I am lost in a sea of language, unable to find just the right words to express what I would like to say. Other times I am lost in a sea of silence, unable to find any words at all.

The seas are, in fact, one and the same. The words I need are all there beneath the surface of the waves, moving like shy and purposeful fish. There are days when the words rise to the shallows, drawn upward into the sunlight, and I can collect them with ease. Other days, they swim deep in the shadows, and I cannot see them.

While the Scylla of daily life is a danger to my writings, it is the dark and formless void of the Charybdis in my ocean that I fear more. Within it is an indescribable longing. The fish scatter before its deafening roar.

I must find Odysseus' fig tree and cling until the storm surge wanes. Then I will be able to look out over the waters again, and I will be relieved to see the silvery scales of my wordy fishes once more.