begin again.

I have not written in a very long time.

That may not be true. I have my fits and starts, privately kept. Nothing sustained. Nothing open. Nothing available for consumption. Which is not to say that readers are the point of writing. Readers can be very nice, yes. The possibility, maybe even just the illusion of an audience, is a motivating factor. It helps, and so I'm venturing out into the internet again.

I've found that the act of writing helps me organize my thoughts. It creates a record of a time and place. A state of mind. It helps me reframe, rethink, to say things I can't say out loud. Spoken words never have come out quite right for me. I get by, but that medium has a surface tension that keeps things from breaking through into what lies underneath. And when I don't write, I start to believe that there is no underneath - I become two-dimensional. I need the additional gravity, escape velocity from my planar existence. I can return to the written word and clarify, retool. I can continue to tinker and take my time.

And it is so nice to play with language. It's a game I love to play, if inexpertly. I honestly enjoy my own words, and it feels unseemly, but it's true. Even when I am wrong. Even when it hurts. Even when I get nowhere and simply circle around a thought that refuses to be pinned down. Even when I repeat myself.

I've said all these things before, but not here. Everything that came before has disappeared into draft format and there is no reason to raise those ghosts again. I will not worry about what came before.

Better to start over. Quietly.

Hi.