Rambling
I haven't been here a while. This place is just as I left it, all that time ago, with a bit more dust and a lot less emotion. Like an old book, I flip through the pages, dry and unattested, the words skip back. Surely, I jested. I recall ambition to connect to the moment, hoping to savor the experience. Yet, when I reread the entries, they don't seem so necessary as before. They are not as I had intended. Most were scrapbooking moments, things tried, information gathered, games played. Others were complaints about how I never had enough time and surely not enough energy. Yet I always insisted that I'd write again, write more, write real. Then the accident occured in which I'd spend some time determining what is real and ultimately become distracted in a long winding thought process. My mind starts working like a hyper drive pinball, shooting of in some direction only to meet a new option and fly of hither.