It’s been some time since I have written. I rarely have time anymore, and I miss it. Although, why do I want to write? I cannot, it seems, conceive anything creative or artistic, dramatic or poetic. All that I can seem to record are my own thoughts and experiences, and sometimes feelings. Which leads me to question: if I already know what I am thinking, why concern myself with transcribing those stray ideas? Perhaps precisely because of the haphazard nature of my mind- which really is not, but rather appears so because the turbulence of the world and its demands prematurely strip my attention from such contemplations. (How rude of it to do so without first asking, although I suppose it is plausible that I spend too much time absorbed in introspection to expect the world to wait for me to finish.) Yes, because of the surrounding world, ideas can be fleeting, and only the most resilient of notions remain unscathed. But if I write them, if I bring them here, then they are no longer evanescent. I spend all the more time pondering, transmuting abstract conceptions into words, extending their lifespan, and thus once-fragmented thoughts become fully formed. I write because writing is thinking.

I might think it absurd to expect others to want to read the sporadic musings of my non sequitur mind were it not for the fact that I appreciate knowing the musings of others. They give me more to think about and new perspective to consider. And so, if like-minded others looking for things to ponder should stumble upon my thoughts, may they derive from them a fraction of the enjoyment that I do.