Why do you read this when you could be reading so many other things instead? Is it because you are hoping to find here something useful, fun, romantic? Is it out of solidarity with someone who has veered off the common path in order to write as a way of life? Or are you just incautiously curious?
Perhaps it is only serendipity that has brought you here. Perhaps only chance. Or maybe the boy in my avatar has winked at you.
Or maybe — and what a maybe this is — you like to read what I write. Maybe you find in it something that resonates with you, even if we may have never met.
If this is the reason why you are still here, I have to apologize to you, for lately, I have not been posting much.
Have I stopped writing? Have I lost my purpose? By no means! I write every day. I write stories, I write almost-poems, I write when I am happy and I write when I am sad.
Only that some writing, like wine, needs time and quiet to settle before it can be shared with others. Perhaps the boy has found a muse, and thus, under her influence, he labors quietly on stories and almost-poems that perhaps one day will make his name. Or perhaps he is only making up excuses.
Sometimes, I’m not sure what to think of him myself. But after all these years, I have learned to accept him as he is. A little mean, a little difficult, but a boy nevertheless.
This place may have become a little dusty, but see, I have my broom with me. I am going to tidy it up and put new flowers in the vases, forget-me-nots and roses. And I will open the curtains too, to see what new views and perspectives greet us through the window.
A new year is coming, with new challenges, new adventures, new opportunities, and you, dear reader, seem to be just the type of person I should write to.
This, then, is not just me taking off my hat and waving at you after being away for a time, but an invitation for you to stop by again soon.
For though we may live far apart, our writing is the magic that makes it possible for us to meet in a warm and comfortable place filled with understanding, in a place without a number or a sign, but an authentic place nevertheless, a place such as this.