They say no news is good news, and maybe they're right. But just the occasional update would be comforting. Silence can be devastating - left to its own devices, the mind can dream up some terrifying scenarios which have no basis in fact, yet are just as real to the thinker as the memory of what he had for breakfast. It's probably this capacity to believe the imagined to be true that makes horror stories such a delight to read... but I digress. It is so hard to stay focused when your heart just isn't in what you're doing.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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