Once upon a time, I felt alive. Maybe angry, maybe joyous, maybe both simultaneously. I felt my soul. I knew my heart. I was lost, but I knew that.
I need to learn to write again. Because, let's be honest, it's the therapy of our generation - blogging. We've grown up in an age where direct human contact has become less and less of a requirement for successful living, yet at the same time we know it's all a lie. We need to be heard. We need to speak and we absolutely require someone to listen. Or, at the very least, the possibility that someone might be listening. This is going to be my possibility.
I think in prose. When I really try to think things through, my mind invents conclusions in the forms of fancy sentence structures and emotionally-driven adjectives. Regardless of if I write it down, I think in the way of words on paper. No dialogue, no dialect. Prose. I'm writing even when I'm not. It's second nature to think these things out this way. Mostly, I'm crazy.
I'm crazy and I'm going to start writing again.
It's time.
