Though the page has­n’t been fin­ished yet, I feel the need to write. What about, I’m not quite sure yet. Things have been chang­ing so much, there has been so lit­tle stag­nan­cy around me, that it will take me quite a while to under­stand what is going on. Another…six months let’s say?

And these thoughts roam in my head, this and that, com­ing back and forth like a mass of dense liq­uid dropped in anoth­er mass of denser liq­uid. I don’t know what I’m see­ing. I don’t know what I’m feel­ing.

I’ve been wait­ing quite a while to do this; I want­ed to get some­thing down the first minute I want­ed to make a page again. The whole time, thoughts just kept com­ing, things that I’d like to write, express, be under­stood. I did­n’t think that I’d know where to start. And I don’t.

Perhaps it’s the draw of the machine, the beau­ty of a cus­tom inter­face, the click­ety-clack of the key­board. Or per­haps I’m just weak, and I’m just wait­ing for a chance to be heard. I’d say both cas­es are like­ly, and not mutu­al­ly exclu­sive.

So what can I say? What can I write? Only that I don’t know what to say, or what to write. After all, what bet­ter way to start again? It feels like I’m mov­ing towards the cen­tre of my being, trav­el­ling as the poet through the infer­no, but with­out a guide to the next bol­gia.

I wish I knew.