I've stopped writing again.

Little bits here and there are catching up... minor illnesses... major changes... different surroundings and people around. I suppose all of it adds into a weird combination that may at some point later produce profound verse, but not right now.

I've often wondered why I can't write grief. Some people can, but not me. I can't put that reality into words. Perhaps it's because the words are an escape--A time when I feel no grief, or at least less grief. Perhaps it's because the words are a truth and I'm afraid to see the truth printed. I can print the facts. I can print the events. Just don't ask me to print the emotions...