Well, here we are, boys and girls. Survived another weekend, back for another week of fun and frolic. Went to the pub Friday night, played darts, listened to Irish music, got drunk - not necessarily in that order. Cleaned house on Saturday, then saw Van Helsing, which I liked, Saturday night(Go see White Chicks. It's the absolute best comedy of the summer - I could not stop laughing). Sunday I went to church and choir practice, then spent some time in front of the ol' DVD player catching up on movies I somehow missed, like Good Will Hunting, followed by Dungeons and Dragons to clear my brain. I'm behind on my pleasure reading and my studying, but maybe I can get back on track tonight. Oh well. Break's over....
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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