The past few months have passed so quickly, it's hard for me to believe that they even existed. Like the chatter in a busy airport terminal, or the clatter of voices in a mall, the days seemed to mesh together into white noise. I'm not sure what to make of it.
I like busy, I always have; however, tonight I yearn for quiet solitude. Around here, there's not much of that until the kids are in bed. Even then, there's dishwashers, dryers, cars outside, and even the thoughts in my head to keep the noise level high. And there's always something to do.
For me, writing is the escape I seek. As the words form on the screen in front of me, my mind carries itself to that place I'm creating and develops a void where no sound can reach. Only the story may penetrate and the voice of the writer may speak. It's a lonely place, at times, but it serves as my own sanctuary of thought.
While the minutes drift by, the hours turn to days, and years mark the centuries of fantasy and wonder in this place. It's an odd sort of being, but welcome and quiet. Yes, I'm writing again. That's all that matters to me when I feel this way. The rest is edited for print.