...and so with that I dig out the old dusty book full of words strung haphazardly together into what I call songs. Time capsules of days long since forgotten and days I've long since wished to forget. Indelibly etched into book upon book as permanent record. I'm not quite sure what it is that stirs inside of me that compels me to touch page to pen despite not often being happy with what you could call the results. It is however generally the product of a great deal of unease or a modicum of sadness. Kinda ironic when something you use to cope ends up stirring up the same feelings oftentimes upon your spontaneous and sporadic returns to it. And yet and still something hits me and I mire line upon line and page upon page with the garbage spilling from my mind. I think it's part of an unspoken necessity to create something tangible in a vain attempt to affect and change the world, or really just a plain desire to create, to make something out of nothing even if the something ends up being construed as nothing. That and there is just something oddly soothing in the written word, especially when coupled with returning to what's familiar even when sometimes it's painful. Thankfully things seem to be looking up, which generally begets far more sporadic returns but generally a better product. Here's hoping...