Nothing in Particular

Just trying to break back into the world of internet displayed thought. I haven't written much of anything lately, and I know that the longer I keep away from writing, the harder it will be to get back into it. I don't think I'll ever not have the desire to write, but I really am not the greatest when it comes to follow-through.

My writing at this point in time reminds me of a bike I own. This bike, is sweet. It is so, so sweet. It's a vintage Schwinn beach cruiser. Candy apple red, with nice little white wall tires. Oh, a bike like this begs to be rode. It needs it. Sadly, instead of riding my little red bike, I neglected it. For some time my little beach cruiser sat on the back porch, unprotected while the ocean breeze had its way it. After the humidified humiliation, the chrome on my beach cruiser was covered in a rash of rust, and the candy apple red had been dulled down to more of a brick outhouse red. I felt guilty every time I looked at it. Luckily, my little sister volunteered to adopt my little red beach cruiser for a while. She'll take better care of it than I did, and now it won't be in the back crying "Ride me!"

So, my writing has rusted like the little red bike. Whenever I think about all the things I could be writing, I get a tinge of guilt. It's as if I've set my creativity out to rust among all the worthless things I have been doing with my time. Well, to be fair the things I have been doing instead of writing aren't worthless for the most part. Feeding children, breaking up brawls, folding mountains of laundry--it's not worthless, but it's not creative in the least. But my writing, unlike the bike, cannot be pawned off on another to be lovingly restored. I own it. I am responsible for it forever, and if I don't get the rust off of these fingers and this brain--it's my own damn fault.