"I bare my heart in all my poems..."

I've been reading a lot of poetry lately, sitting in the slant from the sunlight that comes in through my living room window, trying to remember what it means to have poignant and poetic moments in everyday life, and more importantly to recognize them. I spent my formative years trying to capture these moments on paper as they happened infrequently, always with the wrong people and at the wrong time- which retrospectively, probably renders them that much more significant- nonetheless, there was a time when I knew what it meant to long for artistry amidst the dull of the mundane.

It isn't so much that this part of my life has been forgotten, but rather that I fear it will. I sometimes worry that I've stifled this part of who I am for so long that she's almost gone now, sitting on a dusty shelf somewhere next to well-loved toys and dreams that haven't happened, fading in the quiet afternoon light. I seldom have time for documenting sentiment, or pondering the majesty of the cosmos or the striations on the earth, the tragic beauty of the human condition or the sheer heartache of days gone by. Yet still there is this longing...

I always joke with friends that I would not have been hired at my current job if they knew I was a writer. This is because the job that I do requires much attention to detail, superhuman organizational skills (which I don't have) and the ability to switch quickly from one topic to the next without much time for processing (which is why I've decided that I've developed adult-onset ADD). Funnily enough, I spent the first six months there trying to remain afloat and the next six trying to figure out why I was so tired. Now, almost two years into it, I've finally hit the groove yet while I love the work I do, it isn't as satisfying as writing has always been. I've discovered that even though I'm capable of living life at the speed of light, I'm much more inclined to sit beneath a magnolia tree somewhere, contemplating the truths of fiction and writing the poetry of my life.

So, in a hopeful resolution to merging my two divergent selfs- the poetic and the real-world self- I have decided to take up writing again, and this is my public attempt. The truth is, even amid all the chaos and hurried busyness that is this life, I've never stopped writing. I've written for time immemorial which is likely the reason I desire it so when the season is dry and my pen is weary. However, this time I will write with unction and without restraint.