It wasn't a mistake. It was fate.
It wasn't a calling. It was a call.
It wasn't a duty. It was a privilege.
It wasn't a sacrifice. It was a sacrilege.
It wasn't an attack. It was an awakening.
It wasn't a defeat. It was a fall.
And why do we fall, Master Bruce?
An early evening dream
A past life love affair
- John Mayer, 'Do you know me'
It used to be my thing. Something I so loved to do. Maybe the appreciation of about 4 or 5 people made it better. Even otherwise, it just used to make sense.
I think there was a time when I turned to it, just because. Because I needed to talk, even if I never talked to anyone. Because I was too private and I didn't want to be. Because self-pity was comforting. Because I liked to go back to it. Still do. Sometimes.
Then came the stories. The memories. The tell-tale tales. The audience.
And then, nothing. I grew out of it. Lost the flow. Lost the plot. Lost the inclination. Lost.
I'd like to talk again. Feel again. Love again. Think again. Remember again.
Fuck FB, Insta, whatever else. I want to blog again. Write again. Finish the damn book. Start a new one.
A friend once said I won't die a lawyer. Maybe more than one friend said something of the sort. I'd like that to be true. Maybe at least more than just a lawyer. Something better. Something different. Something else, just as well, maybe better.
Da needs to come back.
