Sometimes I write for ten minutes and the word flow out of my consciousness like water from a ledge. Other times there is no water; nothing to come forth. I started this blog three times before this and deleted everything. That happens sometimes too. But I came back. I didn’t quit. I’m here and I’m typing and the words, though weak and meaningless at first, are coming.
Writing has never betrayed me, though I have failed it time and again. I have often not afforded it the attention it deserves. I have often not loved it as I should. Writing has and always will be there. I can come home to writing and I will again. Perhaps not now or even ten years from now, but I know that I will always have stories buried inside of me waiting to emerge.