February 22, 2017

I haven’t been writing much even offline. My journal’s last entry must have been sometime in July when I was figuring myself out after my lowest low in years perhaps. I made a pact to try things out and I have been going at them and enjoying them when life isn’t busy wasting my efforts. Taking a unit in fine art has been super healing to me in ways I didn’t anticipate and I see opportunities with each successful thing I create and actually love.

I promised myself I will not stress about blogging anymore. I will work on myself at my own pace and post when and only when I need to.

This is bound to get a little hard because I want to retry #52Shorts next year and get to where I can lose myself in writing.

I find myself imagining a lot but never quite enough to put it down. There are characters in me that live to date, years on, and some of the, wait patiently going about their lives because I will not be rushed. I write poetry when I muse about life when it is deeply affecting me. I write fiction when I am at ease emotionally and my mind is not caught up with watching where life’s next punch will come from.

I hope next year is kind to me as it has tried to be the final half of his year. I hope and yet as I sit here liking the sound of the loud keyboard I tap on, I think I have to write about fear. Explore this silent ocean that’s been rushing towards my shore, lapping at my feet but never really knocking me off of them or even trying to drown me. Just lapping.

I need a swim. In Mombasa and in this ocean that taunts me.

Made of Sand
Not Dura, but Alaminadura

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