What an age it has been since I have tried to write here, a little lifetime it feels, not that things have changed so much — indeed, that is perhaps why it feels a lifetime, for my life has settled into patterns, rhythms of days unbroken by any surprises despite the capacity for great surprise the world must hold. It is in me, the settling, I think, and right now I am turning around perplexed, pressing at the walls I have made for myself, something like the stereotyped mime in the invisible box, trying to find what it is that holds me in place when there is nothing visible or concrete.
But the answer to any kind of stuck, for me, is always to write. And so I write, here, because it is mine, and perhaps it will be beautiful, or not, or wise, or some good thing, or perhaps I will post this and then vanish again for a year. I cannot guess. Still, I write tonight, reaching out from these invisible walls into the world I love and miss and desire and fear so much. I said to my friend, some few days or weeks back, that my heart and I are often not on speaking terms (yes, stealing the line, but only as it was true), and he said he thought that a reason why I so often feel that I cannot find my heart at all, or the rest of my self. But talking to my heart in my closet seems distasteful, just pacing the space of the cage, and so — here. For now.