I go so long between postings now that every new one necessitates an explanation. I wish I could lie and say I've been journaling elsewhere, hoarding stories on scraps of loose-leaf under my bed. But the truth is that when I write these days, I do it for things too mundane to even warrant mention. I write because I am told, or because my paycheck depends upon it. I never dreamed it would come to that, but it has. What I once loved more than anything else has suddenly become this small, neglected habit. I can't even speak about it with resorting to the past tense. And if I've strayed from here lately, perhaps that's why.

Life is so odd. One year you're certain you'll be doing one thing or living in one place or loving one person forever, and the next you're on to something new. I don't know how I feel about that. Unsettled, I suppose, but perhaps a little encouraged, too. If this dry spell is only a phase, it can't last much longer.