long time. . . .

It's been a long time since I touched this journal, or--for that matter--a poem or short story. I've done extensive writing for The Yellow Bike Project, but nothing creative or even personal. This wasn't an act of laziness or neglect. It was a choice. I had chosen to leave words for the writers and to pursue a purer form of life, one without the vanities of art and the abstract thoughts that accompany it.

Looking back over this month, though, I intensely regret not writing. My memories are still there, but they're difficult to access. There's no simple cue to summon them. In a way, that's exactly what these journal entries are. They're a Rolodex of memories. I can flip through them and remind myself of the stories I've lived. Ah, that's the night I got stoned watching a guerrilla concert with Lauren. Oh, and there's the time I talked about anarchism with Hamer. I remember scenes from these nights with surprising crispness. But I'm forgetting that I can remember them.

So I'm going to rededicate myself to this task. I'm feeling like a writer again.