It would appear I've been writing in some form of this space since 2005. Twelve years. While the frequency of posts tends to ebb and flow, I seem to always return. Fortunately so. One of the reasons I write is to remember. Many posts on this very domain contain details I've since forgotten about. It's a luxury to be transported back to a place in time by words when the memory itself doesn't emerge.
Much of my creative writing ceased when I graduated college. Life became a lot more routine, and corporate. At the same time, I also started another blog focused on a niche interest; those posts won't be seen here, but I amassed several hundred since beginning in 2011. Writing has been there, but reflection through writing has been largely absent.
I return here as a humbled soul. One who is still haunted by the echoes of an old life no longer realized. I've spent some time this week re-reading these entries. The hopes, the failures. Perhaps what I'm struck by the most is how little real emotional progress I've made over the past years. How the depression hasn't really lessened. How I still seem to have little more direction than the wind provides.
In terms of having things, I have less than I ever have had. And that's not a possession thing, it's a structural thing. The roots of my foundation are not deep, the walls themselves barely holding. I'd like to return to writing and reflection, produce more nonfiction and poetry. But I fear it will be as many of my other expressed desires in this space: wanting followed by inaction.
Either way, will try to light the spark. Produce a flame. See farther into the darkness.