Perhaps, one of these days, I’ll feel compelled to say something again, now that I actually have the time to write.
But the urge isn’t there. What’s there, instead, is a call to be quiet, to withdraw, to read silently, to absorb.
To be present to the mass of confused and contradictory wants and desires.
Out of all this, something will emerge.
And that’s when I’ll write again.
But not now.