It Will Be.
I’m going to try writing again. Really. This time I mean it. I’m craving the expression and I just figured that out.
I’m feeling hopeful and anxious and vulnerable and loved and at home and on the verge of a lot of change and I want to be able to chronicle this time of my life–this period–these last six months of this interesting year. I think it’s pretty great–this life I’ve got– I want to adequately describe how I’m living it with a fluid-like smoothness and precision so I am able to look back in a month or a year or a decade and know exactly what I was thinking and exactly how I felt–good, bad, ugly, happy, nervous, uncertain.
I think I stopped writing because The Words became ellusive. They began to creep away from me at the times I used to find the most inspiration–in times of triumph, misfortune, sadness, after a glass of wine–these used to be the times when I couldn’t get these ten little digits to shut up. Now, in these times…silence.
For a while I was frustrated.
I wondered how these little dudes who used to be such a good friend of mine could disappear on me without warning, without even saying they’d miss me. Without even leaving a damned note telling me where they’d gone and when I could expect them back. My expectations of The Words were far too high, obviously. And after being frustrated for long enough–after countless drafts in the folder of this blog that I’d dubbed absolute shit–after days and nights of words that I couldn’t string together with any real meaning, I gave up. I quit looking for The Words.
Which is why, as I attempt to bring The Words back into my daily life, my expectations are incredibly low. Like, barely above my toes.
So don’t get your hopes up.
It could be ugly.
But it will, if nothing else, be.