Penpals and papermates.

The last thing I wrote.I object to rage.

My pen never left the page,so my words were never left alone.

A connection,A kinship of prose.

You cannot force words to intermingle with others,and there's no ands if or buts about it.Including in what i last wrote.

There was no questioning of what I wrote,it flowed like a stream not a raging ocean,from frustration.

I didnt drown in my words,hoping there was something that could pull me out of past temporary writers block situations.

It was natural,not forced.

Maybe it's not writers block,perhaps you are being held back from the words you shouldn't write at this time.

The words aren't ready to emerge,and make that connection with these present words.

They're probably awaiting to be reunited with future words that they already know.