This may be my last post. I don't have time to write since I changed jobs and the last thing I want to do when I get home is sit in front of a computer. I'm also tired of all the "comments" which are nothing more than spam for stuff no one wants, needs, or intends to buy. While I'm blocking them from posting without my consent, it is tiresome to wade through mortgage, weight loss, and "job" posting comments to delete them. As a medium for communication, I'm thinking that blogging is overrated and I no longer feel that I have anything of value to offer.
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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