38 entries in 2011 and 66 in 2018. The years in between ranged from 1-25, as if I need another reminder of the ways my spirit gets set ablaze and ripped asunder from the breaking of affections and chains and years together. Lights and incites.
As if there weren't a million other even little things that inspire me, daily. That set me on course, that cause me to spout sonnets. And it does seem that writing keeps my focus, causes me to encapsulate and reflect on moments. To more or less eloquently synthesize and capture aspects of what makes it tick, what gives it meaning, what agitates and invites me. Towards growth and newness and insightful[ness] or what-have-you-nots.
Picking up tricks and trends of the trade along this winding way. You're eloquent and well spoken, they've said. Mama used to say how good I was at writing and maybe I am, maybe it's true. She said many things, but that feels instructive and directive. This chance meeting of souls seems to enforce it, likewise. And I'm sensing lately new words and alternative phrases and creative approaches to description. Set ablaze, smoldering in a way.
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