I've missed the written word passing through my fingers, scraping paper, and staining shirts. Broken thoughts and trial by dreams find a way to gather and merge into actually real thinking when I write it all down.
I'm not writing about what I'm dealing with. I'm keeping the dirt out of the words and real life is far too unpleasant at times. It's not all that bad mind you, folks around the world are dealing with much worse.
So I instead wander into the dusty corners of where I used to be, play back and forth with my recall, and sutter away at the pages I've decide have meaning to me once more.
I've left the Facebook. It's self-gratification writing and has little substance... it leaves me cold when I'm done. Empty to all of the rewards of actually working with English. I need the practice to really write so I left.
This post is much shorter than I had envisioned. I expected to bully my way through the writing, dropping sentences of substance and phrases with meaning. Instead I'm shy, having been gone too long left with only withered experience. I had decided on the deep end of the pool and found myself slowly wading back to the shallow side.
I'll get better. I'll rip away at the dead trees, flattened for my scribblings. I'll waste the ink and lose time in words. Hopefully I come back a bit sooner... hopefully I come back intact.