As you may have noticed, I haven't done so well at abstaining from "floofy" writing. It's hard! It's hard to stay away when something is so indulgent.
Lately I feel as if I can only write in two ways. One is highly neurotic and goofy, the other is, well, highly abstract and floofy. It's disheartening. Where's the in between? Where can I find more stable ground? Should I begin writing scholarly essays again? God, no.
I've been searching for my voice for decades now. Two decades and nine years and a couple of days to be exact. I wonder, however, if my voice was never lost. I wonder if my voice has been shouting at me for two decades and nine years and a couple of days and I just haven't been paying attention. Why have I been turning away? What am I rejecting and why do I fear it? There is a truth that lies waiting to be acknowledged by me. It's going to require bravery and patience and abandonment. It's going to require eye contact.
What we look at looks back at us. We can't help but stare at train wrecks and sunsets.