A surreal pandemic has surpassed a year. I lament the loss of a latest lover. Life thrives still, work, pink blossoms budding, new insights born of extra time, quarantine, and drastically altered socialization.
Nearly every day I think of writing, influencing, posting. I've taken a few years off from blogging. This risky exposure. Feeding me. Voice speaking. Thoughts unwilling to resonate in a chamber alone. Thoughts that, for the collective, need witnessed. Taboos better off discussed. If anything for the brain vessel.
Writers have always intrigued me. Ernest Hemmingway. Pablo Neruda. Carl Jung. Mahatma Gandhi. Isabel Allende. Irvin Yalom. Penning or typing away in their offices in the morning. Consistent routine. One of the great influences within the species. Or at least for our neighbors, circles, and maybe a couple generations. More than legacy - it's influence and visibility that important for me.
When we cause a ripple in the water, or see our reflection, autonomy, we observe satisfyingly how our presence is actually factual and has an impact... perhaps this reflection compensates for the also-factual knowledge that I am nothing, forgettable, and of little consequence. Both are true.
And so I write.
