Each time that the thought occurred to me to renew this practice, a different and varied excuse would spring to mind in order to delay its enactment. Once coffee was finished this morning and the rain began in earnest, I realized that there was nothing holding me back from sharing here, except for the reluctant reticence of opening up another venue of communication with the world at large, with friends; both far and near, but more importantly, with myself.
Writing demands a unique discipline and self examination. The order of ones thoughts, experiences and ideas are weighed, sorted, collected, collated and then thrust into signs and symbols that can be interpreted in so many ways, by others, as well as myself. The impreciseness of language and the self awareness needed to edit and correct, to find meaning in the word stream, creates an imperative, not to write for one's audience, but to communicate to your own self.
Even now, as the words tumble out after too long a time, my mind begins examining what it is I truly mean to communicate and if the context and meaning are self apparent or somehow obscured by the multiple streams of thought that occur during this practice. I find myself now word streaming about writing and about not writing. How can this be? It is a perfect and classic example of a cluttered mind that has too long set idle with many ideas and experiences unshared and unexamined that needs to be set in order.
This morning I found a message that I had written to a group of friends years ago on my new phone, somehow stored in the archives of a forgotten past. I read through it but it took me several paragraphs to realize that I had written in. At the time my vocabulary and prose were well honed and I was actually impressed with the way the communication was expressed, though I cannot say that I now agree with its complete content. It is an illustration of how time passes, one ages and matures and somewhere with that inexorable seeping of days we lose ourselves. We forget who we were. We become who we are. In that is loss.
Loss, while not always a bad thing, is inevitable. We lose material things quite often. Some hold onto the tangible physical items we acquire in life quite tightly. Others cling to people in the effort to maintain those connections that inevitably change with time. Some are more inclined to grasp experiences, capturing them in pictures or recordings to relive and share instantly or later. We all lose something.
I lost myself.
Herein is found the beauty of life and existence.
Anything can be found.
I tend to live life with an open hand. I am free and generous to selective many with my time, possessions and finances. The more that I share, the more that I find that I have. It has always been this way and I have never set much store by the things that I own. The more that I have owned at certain times in my life, the more I have found they own me.
The last four years though, I have not shared something. It was not something I hoarded or kept hidden away intentionally, but in effect, that very outcome is what occurred. I did not share myself.
Oh, I was physically present and accounted for at various times and places. I went through the actions that are required of life, but
who I was,
what I thought and the inner workings of my existence were muted both from others and myself.
I simply stopped.
Now I have started again.
This makes me grin.
I am back.
Hello everyone!
You probably won't be able to shut me up now. I have matured a bit with all the experiences that life brings in four interesting years, so I tend to be more succinct in what I say and listen twice as much as I talk.
I know that sharing is a good thing.
daemon
Note: I am not going to edit, alter or change this. All errors and awkward wording will be preserved. I have to relearn how to express myself again in this medium and the mistakes made will better to serve to hone my craft. Oh, and yes, I will eventually catch you all up on what has happened over the last four years, as soon as I feel like it.
