It's very true that I go through periods of not writing. I have too many thoughts, or not enough, or thoughts that I've not yet formed--the prime mover, trickling through time, making impressions without making words [appear in my mind]; in the beginning there was light and it was good, man...and yet, in my mind there is light and darkness and way more parts gray and then, I can't write without that clear purpose.
I write best when things are very sad, very new, or very happy. That leaves the rest of my life, the majority of it, without words, sans description, no deeper thought except for the ones you will never know. All of what's in between is my "real" life, the life I am active in living, and the process of those "live" thoughts.
This is so very obviously a poem to myself about not writing enough. Well, I could have said that better, no? Moving on.
I'm not dark or light right now, nothing is shattering in this earth. Just floating here in the weirdest in between. I know very few things in this moment and in the next? I know more.
I bought myself a birthday present today: an enameled cast iron dutch oven, two non-stick cookie sheets, and a cast iron skillet. My subconscious plans on a long life of searing, baking, and braising; well those things, and I had an insane coupon.
35% off the dreams of my lifetime. Any sarcasm aside, you wish you were here, don't you? I am ready to try out some new and very old recipes. No one to satisfy but myself? A very happy birthday indeed.