I love writing. It is by far the activity in which I feel the most relaxed… yet stimulated. Playful, yet serious. I speak, think, and feel – (perhaps I should reconsider that order) -through the written word with both confident comfort and consuming wonderment.
Still, sometimes, life rushes in on itself and becomes dream-like in its vibrancy and contrast, and I am just too damn busy having a Now to write about it.
So I let it go. I miss it the entire time, and when I return, I come meekly. If the craft were a professor in zes office, I’d be knocking the (always open) door lightly, with just a third of my side body inched into the entrance. Tilting my head in so as not to seem too bold, I’d ask “May I come in?”