Have only the briefest moments before leaving for work. Have been too long away from the habit of simply writing each and every day. Much of it is that the writing that made me, the wheel on which the words were turned, was in small hour letters to those who have, since, grown to love others. Natural, I think, but still sad.
There is nothing to replace those letters - lies a void amidships, where a strong measure of confidence in that nightly discourse once rested. Enter a particular part of my life - an epoch where I suddenly see all the places I am not comfortable with what I have grown to be and seek, if slowly, to right them. Right as a ship, not as a wrong. And in that shifting have no place to tell it.
Is something in being regarded, for sure, that is easily missed once you have it. Find my own self so totally absorbed by watching the written-about lives of others - was once that, will be it. Must go to work.
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