this often happens. i write in my journal. regularly. explore ideas and thoughts and experiences. try to understand myself. and then. silence. sometimes years of it. they always seem to happen when life becomes hardest. when perhaps i need to be writing the most. fleshing out my problems. ranting. weeping. laughing hysterically over odd little things that jolt me out of my funk and make me know, again, that life is good and lovely and beautiful.
it is time to break silence again. one of my best friends told me once that to write is to think. that without writing, one cannot think. i don't know how absolute that statement is, but in some way it is right. i would add that to converse is to think. i have existed thinking only in spurts. randomly. when compelled to because i'd rather converse with my friends than sit a sullen lump. but lately i have realized how much i miss thinking. all the time. hard, laughing, wailing, rigorous, silly, exhilerating, mundane thinking.
so i will write.