sweet as a eucalyptus, terrible as a tempest
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didn't i start out here telling stories?
i remember recounting incidents from childhood to present. and they were funny, too, a lot of them. and some were desperate, black, bland, corny, ridiculous. but they were my stories. i transcribed my life in fragments and there were those who found they liked the stories i told, i think.
and i've been silent for so long, haven't i?
i can tell you it's not for the lack of trying. i've come back in this place a hundred times, typed a few lines away and then left. who knows, i might do the same for this entry.
someone told me it didn't matter. i may have found another outlet and so do not feel the need to write.
but that's not it, is it? i've come back a hundred times to this place that i can't completely abandon, apparently.
so what is it? blogging has lost some of its novelty? the old community has thinned out one by one, moving someplace or disappearing altogether?
no. i tired of telling my desperate stories. i ran out of happy, funny anecdotes to bring a semblance of balance into this place.
nah, i...i'm afraid i lost my stories.
