I miss writing. There was a time when I truly felt the cathartic release that came along with being able to accurately put one's deepest emotions into a language others could identify with.
I miss using any language at all, verbal or otherwise. I am quiet lately. Oddly so.
I reflected on some of my past musings and I am sorely disappointed to report that not much has changed. I am still small and stale, angry and apologetic, capable of loving too intensely yet altogether too distantly.
The past year has seen yet another career change, death, and still there has been some redeeming beauty. I still cry. I still wish I could be extraordinary. I still wake up every day and groan inwardly, praying for my life to end despite being utterly destroyed that someone else I know had the audacity to chose to take theirs.
Every wish and hope and dream and goal I have will go another day unseen and unachieved, and still I sigh and say "maybe tomorrow." One day I will awake and there will not be much time left. I am not usually one for feeling regretful but I truly fear the regret unbeknownst to me yet will catch up.
