I'm back, I think. I've only had half a cup of coffee so far this morning, so my status is still questionable. While I was away, we switched methods of responding to service calls, so I've got to devise a new daily work-flow to make sure everything is being handled properly. I think I'll need more coffee. Maybe I'll just make my own carafe and sneak it back here to my desk...
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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