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.
But what becomes this need to be heard, to be comprehended, though by a spectral audience? Why do I keep turning to this medium, though the convenience is more limited than ink and parchment?
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.