begotten

I read similarly on another long defunct blog that one can wait endlessly for the inspiration to return to writing, when in actuality writing is the only thing that can inspire me to write. Maybe this will fall through by morning: the void will return, the instigation unsubstantiated. Do I post one brooding entry after another, a sort of bloodletting for a new beginning? Much of what has transpired in these unspoken years will remain unresolved. No amount of typing will yield a satisfactory catharsis. Besides, catharsis really isn't my preoccupation: I have never been less fettered by past follies or faults than presently. And though still very much adrift, never has it been so much of my own volition. I approach the coming juncture willfully yet tentative, if not completely unprepared, having forsaken much of what I hold dear. By the end of the month I'll be homeless again, having procrastinated the necessary bureaucratic steps to know what options remain. Random entries will follow as my intentions remain inchoate.