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I miss writing. I really do. 

I have so much to say these days, but nothing comes out fluently, coherently. Hemingway said there was nothing difficult to writing at all. You just had to sit down at the typewriter and bleed. He also said all you had to do was write the truest sentence you know. 

Write the truest sentence you know. 

"God is good." 

Perhaps it all starts from there. Sure, I could write about God's goodness. I always can. (there are no "but"s to this sentence). Write the truest sentence you know. I've been reading Hemingway: The Old Man and the Sea. I haven't gotten very far, but I am reading it. Along with Machiavelli's The Prince and an attempt at The History of Love. 

I don't know. I guess one day I'll sit down and write about contentment and gratitude. I feel I don't stop enough. I like having things to do. I forget to sit down and embed in myself the amazing things that have happened today, yesterday, the day before. I pay too much attention to the task set before me, without realising I've perhaps missed something a bit more significant. 

But I'll take what I can get - I realise I probably value autonomy significantly more than the next door neighbour, and I do tend to like my space. 

still, the most blessed kid on the entire frickin' planet.