Back at the Keys

Several weeks have passed without me penning eloquent thoughts. All the sentiments pile up in stacks somewhere in the dusty corners of my head. Letters I have written are sitting underneath my mattress, waiting for the day I go back to town. I stopped writing personal anecdotes in my journal and started writing bits of stories instead. It's what happens when life is no longer novel.

But that's not a bad thing. The fruit is easy to see and the trees are easy to climb. The stars aren't so bright anymore. I wake without alarm clocks. Soon I will have something adventurous to write about, and not the ferment of my mental complacency.

There are no problems we cannot dissect on our own. The mind is like a scalpel, and even before it is sharpened by the works of Kant or Rousseau or Steinbeck or Shakespeare it has still got the edge to whittle at questions. I enjoy having the seven or eight hours of silence everyday in the orchards, with the oxygen from glossy leaves tickling my brain as it cuts at little questions. Anyways, anyways, hopefully I will write something more intriguing later, that tells about what I've physically been doing.