for some reason i always write the most in january. the words seem to flow out of me --- a tsunami, monsoon, typhoon --- of words I've been aching to bleed but never have the time nor patience to set free. words that have festered in the crevices of my mind for who knows how long. words that I've kept close to my heart, like a pendant, a talisman perhaps.

and it's not like I'm complaining. writing, after being away from it for so long, makes me feel like a soldier coming home to his wife. he bears the marks of war on his skin, in his mind, in the hollowness in his eyes. he is glad to be rid of the gunshots that riddle his sleep, glad to be back home in loving arms, but he cannot shake the feeling of being inches away from death, no.

writing again is coming home, but it's not the same. there is a rustiness in my fingers, in the muscles that make this thoughts into coherent strings of symbols. there is an absence i cannot shake off.

but God knows i will try.