Why
To ponder the reasons for my return to print would be to linger in the weeds and though I do indulge my urge to wonder at the permutations of any "why", I'd rather write of other things. (this is actually a lie. The entire post is now about why I write. I'm keeping this first line to remind myself of the lies I tell myself.)
The new title of my journal is a puzzle I hope to solve, a line of poetry made...special. It had been a beautiful line from a beautiful text in general, but is remarkable now for its apparent value to someone else. If no intent is ever verified perhaps I might, at least, hold it with the same awe as I do its indicator - palpate its impacts, hope for it a purpose, and fasten to it wild possibilities. In other words, love it (as I cannot love...let's call him...L.)
Additionally, I am dancing with an amorphous cluster of words that longs to be a poem or several. Collectively, they have intent...yet lack feeling. And so most attempts to render them into form have resulted in a cohesive, yet bland textbook about the creation story of mysticism with associations from alchemy popping up every now and then interspersed with vague allusions to the science of human development and anacoluthic interruptions. It's an undertaking that has given my life relevance again.
Why am I not funny anymore? This post reads as so serious. Oh, right, I'm hopelessly enamored with someone and simultaneously reeling from 2 great losses: a loss of love and a loss of purpose. Maybe after a few posts I'll lighten up.