I can't really explain why I have the sudden interest in writing for my blog again. The feeling reminds me of going back to a house that someone you loved died in and walking through the rooms. It sounds stupid, I know, but luckily no one cares or will read my nostalgic moments. I mean, why should all good memories of the house be tainted just because the beloved owner no longer lives in the house. I have said before - I have to write. I don't have to be read. Most of my innermost thoughts aren't ready to be viewed by the public because I am still digging deeper into the "why". If I was to truly write down all the thoughts in my head at any given time - no one would ever be able to make sense of them - least of all me. And yet, here I am compelled to write. Compelled to keep typing. Something about seeing it in black and white always seems to unlock the unknown in me.
So here I am writing as if I was going through a haunted house. Tip toeing through the memories. Wading through the dust and spider webs. Just to remember how far I have come.
I like to think that I am improving, that what I do matters. But I look at everything going on and people in my life - and feel discouraged. I have never expected to change them, but since they constantly come to me for advice and I tell them the same thing over and over - you would think they would either leave me alone or change.
It is sad life has to be so complicated.
~A
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