It has been a while. Sometimes life takes over and you forget that you write. You just know that you live and you breathe and you work and you relate and that's all that matters right now.
I used to think writing was something you had to work at. Some days it feels like every word you are putting on the page is being pulled out of you by a thread and it's like a marathon just getting something down. But that's only if you're working too hard at it. Because a couple of years ago I met someone who somehow proved to me that writing is something I, at least, do naturally. They didn't show me this by anything they said or did in particular, they showed me this by just letting me talk.
Okay, so some days it doesn't make sense. Some days nothing you write means anything when you look back on it. But then, does it? Because at the time it felt... right. The words just drifted, dribbled, dropped out of your mouth and onto the keyboard and were swept up onto the screen and it felt good. Because who says you ever have to write for someone else? Who says that writing, when someone else looks at it, has to be something someone can connect to, understand, be interested in?
I've realized that by spending those six months (was it really only six?) writing to someone else, it's somehow showed me how to write for myself. What a strange thought that is.
So here I am. Writing musings while the real reason I opened up a new post page is still lying dark and hidden in the shadows. I think I may well leave it there. It's not that important, anyway.