.

I believe my journals will be bound in black from now on, simply and starkly so. Life should, can, be refined into something so basic, so comfortably real. The lines give warmth, steadiness to the thread of my pen (the ink is black too), and the words may flow more easily.

There have been times (whither days or years; nothing is too fancy to be impossible it seems) when the words won’t come, or more truthfully, I wouldn’t move to the words. I would hide from them, and in acting as such, rather effectively, hide from myself. These are limbo days: not much is remembered, even less is felt.

This break I am on right now (and for what reason I cannot fathom, I persist on calling it a break, though half the time, not working, not being productive, not creating, feels most abominable to me; perhaps it is time till it breaks me, or I shall break myself) is not a time spent in limbo. Thoughts are dreadfully clear, though action, as ever, is slow to present itself. I will wait and see, and observe, till there is almost nothing left to observe from this obstinate viewing post.

I am making decisions now.