As I type, fighting the keys on my old laptop, I realize I haven't written creatively, unconfined by the parameters "140 characters or less" in years. I used to live on words. I would breathe them, eat them, digest them, spit them out, unpackage my thoughts and emotions in journals and blogs, filling each page and margin with embarrassing dribbles of literary drool.
Of my many concerns growing up, the one that haunted me most frequently was that one day I would wake up and find my life dull, without purpose. My creativity all shriveled up, I would lament being trapped in a meaningless life, just going through motions. I promised myself I would never allow this to happen: in words I would find purpose, through expression, my life would always have meaning.
Words, my old friend, let us craft together some prose again.
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