It had been a while and so she thought, more than once in a day, that she should check in and make sure the internet was still there, waiting to see what she would say next.
There was much she wanted to say, much she wanted to share. The days blur and life continues especially when the time isn’t taken to catalogue an existence, to comandeer the written word in an attempt to make sense of what’s happening. Suddenly so many days have passed, so many opportunities to communicate missed, it seems a daunting task to jump back into the ever present flow. The fear that there is so much to say, it will erupt in a deluge, an outpouring of ideas and unexplored thoughts will overwhelm she who is tasked with the sharing.
So she opts out. Again and again. It’s easier to curl up with a book of someone else’s ideas, already formed and organized so neatly. Her own thoughts are a tumult of fact and fiction entertwined, an abundance of stories being written within a brain that is experiencing reality in some semblance of real time.
But the separation of those, the extraction of the story to the page while maintaining the functional existence can be a delicate procedure.
I’m working on it.