Yesterday a friend came by to show off his little bundle of joy - and what a bundle she was. I love babies. I adore babies. I'd have six more if I could, but don't panic - I can't, I won't, and I'm not begging for grandchildren. But holding that little angel, feeling her tiny toes through her little socks while I stared into those intelligent, inquisitive blue eyes that were sizing me up to see if I were good enough to hold her.... even though there was no blood relation, at that moment, if anyone had tried to lay a hand on that child, I would have responded like a crazed mother bear, and ripped his head off with a single swipe of my hand. And I would have had no regrets for doing so.
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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