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It’s a strange thing, I haven’t tried writing for a bit of a spell. It’s extraordinarily difficult, this thing.

I have to wonder how it is that people do it on command, and regularly at that. I mean I understand the pull of it, which is why I dabble here and there. It’s sexy, really, this whole thing. First ideas and creativity, made tangible and packaged for delivery. And the presentation, to turn all that solitude and introspection into something that resembles a conversation, incredible.

I haven’t forgotten about this thing, this old blog. It occupies a peculiarly significant space in my identity. I think about it often, the secret part of me that wishes I was something I’ve never become; the writer, creative and insightful.

Sure I lack for drive and discipline; but far beyond than that I feel there’s nothing to say. I’ve been toying with this topic for a while. Yeah I’d love to do this thing, writing. But for every blog/journal I see of someone chronicling their life events, I’m more interested in identifying with their character than I am by their raw content. And, me being subject to the same rules, I find this paralyzing.

I ought to hit Post before I reevaluate my decision and get lost in particulars and possibilities 🙂

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