Cross Roads.

Lately when I write my words are bland. My writing is directionless. The flood of expression that once used to flow out from the tip of my pen has depleted to a formless trickle. It's a repetition of  writing, erasing, path searching.
Before when I wrote. it was more like a path making. I didn't stand on the cross roads, too afraid to pick which way to go. It was a path making; barging through the jungle to make a path to where ever i was headed.
Maybe the way I write is the same as the way I think.
Maybe right now, I7m too afraid to barge...
So I'm stuck at the cross road. Squinting at the horizon to try and find what it is that each path leads to.
All this squinting is making my eyes blur, and the only thing moving forward is time.