What is there to write? I haven’t written in a long while, that is true. But I can promise that it has nothing to do with any personal decline. I have learned that it can only be what you make it, this journey that is life. I don’t doubt life is certainly just that, a journey. And it strikes me with a sad yet somehow amusing irony, when I think about how all that remains constant in life is the guarantee that it will change.
I once embraced this concept but for a while there I wanted to settle down, finally. But home is a place that I may not find anytime soon. I don‘t think that it is in the cards. The only home I may find is in writing, writing while remaining on the move. Hopefully by now, on Memorial Day, I am far enough out of the shadows to recommence that great vocation and translate all that I’ve seen in the time passed, while keeping a keen eye on what lie ahead.
That is all there is with that. At least for today. On the other hand, it might all just be a big joke. Haha.