back to it:

Well, here I am. Sitting up in the wee morning hours in the, though since transformed, very spot that originated the things of which came to mind and stirred me back to writing. I’ve been wanting to write the way I used to for some time, as I’ve missed it, and have been feeling pulled toward it until now when I lost that tug of war. Why was I playing? It wasn’t me, that’s why. It’s that self that’s been taking over. Anyway, I’m in the very spot, the origin, that started memory-making long ago; memories that crossed my mind this evening, or morning rather, and washed over feelings from then that I haven’t been with for some time. Unexplainable feelings of firsts and depths that were all unknown, and new and exciting and real and unlike anything that ever was or has been since. I feel badly saying so, since so much has been since, but a very different much. Something that, on the outside, seems rather common in this world. I don’t like that. Yet there they are, remaining in their undeniable uniqueness. While mostly what remains of these are the memories, I don’t want to lose that part of me that was then, that loved and wrote and thought and saw in that very small and intricate way. Everything is so big now. So heavy. What happened to my magnifying-glass eyes? And what about that tale-telling-tongue? It’s time to pull those out of storage, as I get rid of nearly everything else.

No tea or book or beloved buddy on the other end to joyfully and unknowingly converse with as the clock ticks on hours into the night. How has so much time passed by and yet here I am back in the same physical location with such similar thoughts floating around in my brain, like a stack of papers tossed from a building roof; I grab one and examine its contents, and though I’ve read it a bajillion times before, am surprised at what I find. Still a bit shocking. Still a bit of hopeful feeling that I can somehow make everything the way it was.