I have resolved myself to begin, somewhat, regular posts back on this blog. Over the past few weeks I've noticed myself regressing into the void of television and ennui; unhappiness and nonfulfillment being the resulting symptoms. Unfortunately, this is second nature for me, as I grew up in an environment where the only time one doesn't watch T.V. is when they are at work. I grew up satiating my mind and emotions via the idiot box. Thanks, but no thanks.
In talking with Brika about her new inspiration to begin her art once again, I've realized that it would be wise to follow her lead as a sort of muse. I want to revise old poems, write new ones, use this blog as a journal to get random thoughts down (to even explore thoughts I didn't even knew I had!).
I don't think a lot of friends understand my relationship (perhaps an odd, sentimental choice of vocabulary, but done so tactfully) with writing. That's fine. I realized over the summer that I probably read more books in three months than most friends will in three years. This not an elitist complaint, I know full well that reading is less exciting than most everything else out there in modernity, but reading and writing are special for me, even though it is not for most of my friends.
Writing is thinking. Explicating thoughts gives me an enormous, unique rush. I love it, and I miss it dearly.
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