Homecoming

Why do I write?

Or, rather: why did I stop for so many months. All the blocg-checkers have probably written me off by now. But no matter. I'l ltell you why I write. It was the external outlet for the inner world. In this typing, in this drawing of sentence-strings and releasing was the only communion I had with the shape of my feelings. I think it's because I'm a stunted human: top-heavy and cerebral. As I grew I missed all those little events that make for better self-understanding: parting, sorrow, betrayal, love lost and gained, closeness, going-with-the-flow...

But no matter. I compensated for it by being dramatic within. In this inner world I found space. I moved in the world, among buildings and down streets like a wraith. The embodiment of non-flamboyence. And I always secretly despised those who could live out ther creative urges and impulses. And I became stubborn and set in my ways. Outwardly. But within! I don't think I've ever enjoyed myself more than when riding the wave of inspiration. (That is not happening today, by the way.) When things chanbel themselves through me and come out twisted, splendid and strange. How strange! Religious people would call it communion with the Divine. I make no such pretenses, aside from ascribing the same value to it. Indeed, it is the spark of the divine within us! Creation! Who would deny it, suppress it, deride it?

Most of modern society does. That's enough for today. I just want to get the ball rolling again.

Consider: "Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love."