Hits on this space has for long verged on scarcity and that is notwithstanding my own. Once or twice a month I come here and I feel ancient, like I have disturbed the dust that’s been sitting here unperturbed for centuries; dust that flies around as I read through the words with heaviness that creeps and with reluctance not of the wise, but of the old.
On top of feeling ancient, I feel estranged. Not so much by the words but by the power that summoned them. I try to find familiarity in that haggard grey room of a blog, or cluttered distracted room of a self, and can’t. Whether from art or memory, my words are farther than my reach could grasp. A comeback? A new beginning? A hesitant call upon the blog, to wake up? To try and cause a silent riddle, into someone’s life? heart? I don’t know.
It is such a mystifying sensation. I realize now that disconnection is the ultimate fate of whatever I produce today, for this blog used to not only be a list of thoughts, but an amalgamation of connected feelings, memories and reflections; a fusion of reality and fiction, and a most heartened record of a history too personal. A live being that is now in hibernation. The mess of words and adjectives are early signs of noted fate, don’t you see? How can I write now when two years are off this record? Do I pretend the world knows? Do I swear a new vow of secrecy and break it? Or do I make do as I go? As it flows?
Traces of music in my utterances are too faint. A hint of excitement begins to emerge. A shock of thoughts destroys the tone. A sigh of chord relates the hope.
Or not, ibhog.