I used to write

I used to write and I loved to write.
It used to be a large part of my expression. People often say that 'writing is cathartic', and I suppose for me it has been, yet it was more than a cathartic expression for me.
It was a way for me to feel not so alone.
It was the way I dreamed and created, painting pictures in my imagination by sculpting words, words that when standing alone bore no real meaning. Yet when I used them, strung them together like beads on a string, they became beautiful.

I was always the kid who would receive the teacher's snide taunt of "Wakey wakey!" as I stared out the open window of the classroom, on an imaginary journey which generally involved talking animals, other mythical creatures (some of my own making) and possibly another dimension or two. The upside of these mental adventures was I did great on creative writing tasks. The not so upside is that I have never been great at maths or focusing on the present time frame.

I often wonder why I stopped writing. Did I stop needing it as an expression?
I have made so many "come back" blog entries, declaring "I'm back!" only to disappear for several more months.
Sometimes, usually at night when I should be sleeping but my mind is still well awake, I remember how much I have enjoyed having a written journey. I remember blogging days and how stringing those words together brought satisfaction.
I would love to be on that journey again. Perhaps I still desire for the kinship, or maybe it's purely that I miss exercising my linguistic muscle.

Whatever it is, I want to be conscious of my journey again in the way that I was before. That is why I desperately want to be able to write more than just "Oh... I used to write"

Smiles,
Meiche in Melbourne.