I can once again, in the wake of surgery, stare vacantly at a screen for hours on end. Broadband has finally been connected in my flat (though broad is an overstatement for the band - middling perhaps; or even slender) after monumental indifference and/or incompetence on the part of our erstwhile provider.
I'm no wiser, but I'm older and often feel it. Revelations of late are notable more for their 'well, duh'-slap-the-forehead nature than any brilliant insight they contain.
Yet my fingers itch. I clench my fists in frustration and collect the snippets of prose and observations here and there. Memories still filter through the speedy blur of now and I still seek to balance what was with what is and attempt to suss what will be from all of it.
The book(s), my life and the bits in between still fling forward, and I still feel the need to mention them all in passing, in some manner of acknowledgment that those moments in time existed; that I was here, now, typing.
I'm out of practice in all things at the moment. It takes awhile and it isn't like riding a bicycle, no matter what people say. The passage of time and all that's taken place - all that I've gained and lost on that part of the journey - changes it. Finding my rhythm again doesn't mean finding something I used to have, nor does getting back in practice mean it's the same practice. The rhythm will be different, must be. Practice won't mean perfect, but that's never really what we do it for anyway.
These odd chronicles begin again and I can't really tell you what I'm going to be writing about, because I haven't really decided yet.
But I am going to be writing, and that's a good start.