Priming The Pump

The whole idea of me running off to Europe is so that I can write. I don't know what, and furthermore, I really don't care what. I just have to write something.

I used to write quite a bit. I actually wasn't half bad. But I stopped one day and never started again. I knew I had written and that was good enough for me. My security blanket was the binder that I had filled. Plus, as you get older, you don't have the same time to write. I was busy growing up and getting jobs and moving and getting new jobs and moving again and moving again and getting other jobs and moving to school and moving again.

Through everything I had done, my writings were tucked away (somewhere) in that binder. I could revisit them when I wanted. I got a little satisfaction at reading what I had written and a little sadness from knowing that I was incapable of adding to them. I always knew I would write again, though. I think the security of that binder kept me comfortable in knowing that I could put off for another day, week or year the task of writing.

From my latest move to now, I have figured that the binder was packed ever so not neatly in a box that I had delivered back to the home I grew up in. I intended to root through the box and discard what was not necessary and to reinsert into my life that which was. The binder most definitely was that which was.

I began rooting through the boxes over Christmas break. Mom wanted the garage cleaned and I needed my security blanket. Mom got her clean garage. My blanket was gone.

So, I think that I need to sit down and begin writing again. I have, for the past couple of months, been in a sort of mourning for my writings. I remember most of them, in concept. I remember none of them, word for word, though. And I was a completely different person when I wrote that binder than I am now. My experiences in the 10 and 12 years since have made the recreation of that binder an impossibility.

I want the binder back, but I know that it is gone. So, rather than mourn for that which I can not recover, I should begin creating my next binder that I might be mourning for in another 10 years. But at least I will have written. Hopefully I will be as prolific now as I was then.

Well, I guess I have rambled a bit too much for the night. But forcing myself to write like this will, in effect, be priming the pump.

Until Next Time!