For a very long time now (over two years) this little page has been my outlet. It's been the place where I came and poured my heart out to whomever may feel inclined to read my words.
I've always written.
I've always had a journal or a notebook or a binder full of poetry and story ideas. Writing is a part of me, of who I am and who I will forever be. It's the one thing I can do mindlessly. I can sit here with my eyes closed and type blindly and everything inside comes out. Every bit of feeling and honesty drips onto the page before you.
I can muster up exactly how I felt that day that my first daughter was born, the way the air smelled the day I left her father, the way my pillow felt when I cried in my room while my parents fought, the dark sky the night I talked on the phone on my porch until 4am. I can remember all of those things by just closing my eyes and writing them.
But I can also take all of those seemingly minute details and spin them into something new. A world not my own with goings on that are purely imagination. I can take that characteristic that one friend has and mesh it with three other characteristics from three other friends and make it a person. A person who is very real to me. A person who doesn't exist and yet who I manage to care about nonetheless.
So when I do that, that thing where I write about something not real, it feels very real to me.
Where is all of this going? Why am I telling you all of this?
Well by means of explanation of my absence.
Every time I have sat down to write here, every time I have even thought about sitting down to write here, it has been my inclination to take a very real person, a person who I care about so much, and put them into fantasy.
I don't necessarily mean to. But just as all of us can't help who we love, I can't help what I write. I write when inspired and that is where my inspiration has been coming from.
So I have a few posts and many drafts, all the same genre. All of what I wish were happening.
And that isn't' so bad.
I've done that before.
But now, I can't seem to stop.
I want to spend more time there, in that place that isn't real with that person who is, than I want to spend here.
I was to cast aside my reality for my fantasy and my indulgence has become to great.
So, while I haven't been blocked, like I usually am when you see days pass here without my thoughts, I haven't been able to write.
I have had to stop writing because I only want to write about one thing.
One dangerous indulgence that is causing me to spend more time in my mind than I do in reality.
So much so that I had hit the point of practically forsaking reality for my imagination. I was literally allowing my imagination to run away with me and when I realized it, I had to stop.
I believe that is considered obsessing.
Which I believe is one of the signs that you are letting The Crazy win.
Can't have that :)
So, I took a break, albeit a long one and I now think I feel better, saner.
So, I am trying again.
Trying to inundate you with absolutely useless dribble for your reading enjoyment.
You know, should there be any of you left to inundate :)
So, please forgive me for bailing on you. I will try now to resume your regularly scheduled idiocy.