Not In Service (words scribbled on a napkin)

It is no longer even interesting for me to wonder why for such long periods I have grown silent. But I do keep wondering what that silence is saying , because it is clear to me that it is saying something more precise and encompassing that I can now put into words. What is it telling me? Is it telling me that writing does so much more for the reader than it does for the writer? Is it saying that often, with writing I feel that I am painting myself into a corner? Is it murmuring to me that my words are a drop in the bucket, not even that-- a drop in the ocean, in an avalanche, a tidal wave? Is it telling me that the conclusions are mostly I-told-you-sos, been there done that, whatever, anything you can say I can say better? Is it saying that the written or blogged or printed word way too often does not enlighten, but, like a match in an underground cave, momentarily dazzles and then leaves the darkness darker? Is it saying that words are not like notes in a classical symphony, but more like sardonic echoes in an institutional lunchroom?