It has been so long since I have written, I am unsure of whether or not to even try… I am unsure of who I will write for anymore. I suppose, as it all began, I am writing for me.
My absence has felt so long, but all the while I have thought of my blog like a good friend that I let down by disappearing into the whirlwind of this life. I have thought of you, my readers, I have thought of myself, the pieces of me that I left here open, breathing, sometimes seeming lifeless but always still alive in my words. I have wondered if I could ever return, for what I feel like I have been facing these last few months seems more than I can reveal to the world, feels more secret than any of the secrets I have shared here before.
Writing is me and by beginning to write again I am coming back into myself, something long overdue. When I stopped writing, coincidentally, it was at the same time my life began to twist and turn and warp itself into something I never imagined it could become. And here I am now, striving to reclaim the me that I was, the me that I am to become, all that I am and all that I can be.
Like what occurs at the coming of Spring, I am coming back to life. I am pushing myself through the cold hard ground that is beginning to thaw inside me, pushing through the emotional binding I gradually wrapped too tightly around myself these last few months. I hope to burst through these layers soon, to pop out of my cocoon and for my vibrant colors to shine brightly again, to shine with the luster of renewal.