O words, words, where art thou?

Gone are the days where I would spend my afternoon poring over books (chick lit, but books nonetheless), absorbing every word and digesting them so I could use them in my writings in the future. It comes like a torrent of waves whenever I want to; the urge to write and ideas come so easily. The words flow from my mind to my fingers gripped on the pen, guiding my writing the way a conductor instructs his orchestra. But now as I sit down and wonder, do I still have this passion for writing? I can't sit down and write as much as I used to. My mind wanders, words could not be constructed, I lose my train of thought and I can't find the exact word to describe the way I feel. There is difficulty in speech as sometimes I pause mid-conversation to search for a word in my vocabulary library.

What has caused this writer's block? This literature disability to express my feelings and to describe things as they are. I feel like I've lost a loved one, my Romeo to this Juliet of expression. What's of good use is expression, if there are no words to express? It is possible to express our feelings non-verbally but words make a whole lot of difference when actions can't justify what needs to be said or written.

I believe it is within me, the words, like a convict imprisoned for what it seemed like eternity. Once released, all the bottled up years of tension and uneasiness will break free and soon I will be able to write as freely as I once did. I just hope the day comes soon enough. This dry spell is making me restless and I'm on the verge of giving up.