There and Back Again

Pondering: A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. (Robert Frost)

It has been ages since I’ve written anything.  This is worrying because it’s either I haven’t had the time, in a long time to write, and/or nothing’s happened to me in a long time that’s worth writing about.  Worst, I may have lost my imagination and what little creative side I have.  A sad thought.  When I was young, I always seemed to find the time to write about anyone or anything.  I could look at something and have the drive to jot a few words to describe that something – to capture it and memorialize the moment.

I am not a good writer, mind you, nor was I born with the wildest imagination. But when I write, I express myself in ways I can’t verbally.  That’s why I’m happy when I have written something, even though no one will ever read it or find meaning from it other than myself.  My written mumblings are extensions of myself, or my mind.

I’m afraid, as I get older, that I am beginning to not pay attention to things around me.  That I am so caught up with life’s tasks, of getting them done and moving on to the next task just to get it all over with.  I’ve stopped experiencing the moments in between or learning from the experiences.  Like most people, I am just living and breathing and existing.

I know that I have because I sit here in my cramped airplane seat, on my way to Vancouver, British Columbia, unable to remember the past few days, the last few months and what I have done in those in-between times.  I can’t remember the last time I was excited, or the last time I was truly, truly happy or truly, truly sad so that I could write about it.  All I remember is that I survived each week.  And what little memory I have of things I’ve done this week and the week before all start and end the same way.  I’m no longer making memories – I’m merely doing the same thing over and over again.