It has been an eternity.
There were, and are, many issues that stopped me writing in the first place. Besides the permanence of writing things down, the very act of carving out words shines a very bright, often glaring light in the large empty room that seems to be my heart. It seemed easier to tidy up the room before I even shone that light again. I don't know if it'll ever happen; if things will ever get tidy. Things were simpler then.
There was so much to write, and I never did. Maybe they weren't presentable thoughts, or noble ones. Many of them were selfish, the product of which would only be endless pages of self-centered babble.
I died that day, the day I stopped writing. Somehow I planned to write again after a full-scale redesign of Tribolum. Somewhere between doing projects where I got minimal input and listening to Chris Rice at dawn I realised that it was the production of content that was important. It is not even content itself, for as you can already see this entry is getting exceedingly convoluted and pointless. The act of writing itself feels like the first drops of rain on the parched Arizonan soil of my heart.
It's simple, really. Seeing the small picture on the side of <a href="">Julie's blog</a>, I realise that all I want is to sit on the side of a mountain again, watching the sunset with a friend or two. Or none at all.
And coming home to write about how I saw a certain flower on a certain hill, basking in the sunlight of that certain sunset on that certain day.
Thank you for all your emails, phone calls, text messages, prayers of love and care. Sorry to have wasted your time reading this entry. Writing it was something I really, really needed to do.

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