Some fifteen years ago or so, I used to write poetry.
I used to write it all the time.
Every day.
Every.
Single.
Day.
I didn't wake up planning to write. I didn't walk around thinking I had something to say that needed to be shared, to be read, to be heard.
It just happened that way.
Then I stopped.
Almost as quickly as I started.
Whatever it was that caused me to pour my soul onto the sidewalk for passers-by to look at, or step over, or totally ignore, just wasn't there any more.
From time to time I wondered about that. Why I started. Why I stopped. What it cost me. What I gained from it. Whether it was even transactional or just a one way street that led down the hill and out to sea never to be seen again.
Yet here we are. Again.
Grasping at thoughts the way you try and catch the cobweb you just walked into face first in a bid to get rid of it as soon as possible as it being quick enough might erase the feeling it ever happened.
Doesn't sound like a positive reason does it.
I'll let you know how it goes, just as soon as I've washed my face.