I want to write again. I've been feeling a big stirring inside to write a story, the one that lives inside of me and for some reason keeps peeking its head out and then tucking back in, like a shadow. Why? Why keep letting it hide? Why not write and write and keep writing until something that resembles a novella, a story, an essay -- something, anything meaningful comes out.

I can.


Life here feels a little like it's on hold. I tilt my head and listen. For what? I ask. I hear the sound of the rain on the skylight and the tick and hum of the heater. In the distance I hear a crow caw, and that feels the most like my heart right now. Calling out, screeching almost. I don't want to feel restless anymore, I want to feel fulfilled and relaxed. HA! My mind actually laughed at that as I was writing it. Fulfilled and relaxed? it echoes. Oh really? And isn't that what you have been up until now? So then, pray tell, why are you so friggin bored?

I guess it's that time again. Time to shake things up like a snowglobe.

I'm ready.