I am writing again..


Its been nearly a year. I go a little queer when I can’t write. Cranky, and crotchety, wandering around with a woe-is-me, is life worthwhile? bag upon my shoulder, which I am constantly wrestling with, trying to shrug it off as every day it weighs me more, bowing my legs, bending my back, pushing my grumbling chin closer to the gutter as I shuffle my way through the cigarette butts and dead bugs..

And I know the answer.. still couldn’t make myself until recently. I have rediscovered a purpose. I need a purpose, in all things. Words for the sake of words just make my bag that bit heavier, bend my back a little further. Its what I can find within them that makes me happy.. and oh.. I’m happy.



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