Grasping

photo by Vesuviano.

I should never have waited this long to write here. Yeah, I had a number of excuses, what with buying a new home and work getting crazy. But the longer I wait to post something, the more pressure builds up. On this long of a hiatus, he better come up with something good. But I haven’t. I’ve barely written a thing during these last six months. When I try to write, I stumble around, get all clammed up and frustrated and tight inside, and then I just go blow my time on the internet or channel surfing. But now I feel like I better throw something against this wall, or it could get archived, and I’m not ready to let the Life of Brettanicus slip into oblivion. So here you have it, the first post in six months, and it’s about nothing really. Which is probably for the best. I get blocked when I put high demands on myself. I’m not even sure I want to write still, but since the age of fifteen I have believed that writing is the only thing that gives me a sense of purpose, and that feeling—when inspiration gets into my bloodstream—it’s one of the best feelings in the world. It makes you want to experience it, again and again, and you chase it but never quite get there again. But the chase is the next best thing.