For as much as I read, you'd think coming up with my own words would be much easier than it actually is. Their words mix with my thoughts to produce something worth noticing, something which demands (and receives) attention. But it's not like that. And it doesn't matter to me. I write because I am told to write. I write because that's what I've been told I do. Everything else is temporary. Everything else is just a way to pass the time until I am embraced by a large, pleased, and paying audience. Everything else doesn't matter.
But it matters to me. These walks I take, the time spent alone. It matters because it is how I function. It matters because it is where I find a peace I've never known in fulfilling the expectations of others. It matters because it is still a mystery to me and I am nothing if not a collector of clues.
I didn't come here to write about not writing, though. I came here in hopes of unwrapping pieces of my past which have recently reappeared. Why he is on my mind. Why I've never left that place even though it no longer exists. Why I still hide my eyes when there is nothing to see. They will all remain wrapped for the time being, however, as I struggle to untie other, less important knots. I have to keep my hands busy with something.
The excitement of tonight will pass while the past remains unresolved. Happy new year.