I've been gone for a month now. I've had more on my plate than I could handle, and I had to go.
But I've been in an empty, dusty room without my words.
"But what does it all mean?" a new friend asked me today. I only know him because our words speak to each other. If you're here in this room with me reading this, there's a chance we only know each other because of our words, too.
I know what it all means. It happens when the lights go out and the world is silent and the clock ticks forward a little past 11PM. The dusty room fills with butterflies with bright glowing wings. With weird vintage furniture that talks. With the sand from a thousand deserts and the scorching neons of sunsets and the howling of coyotes at a full moon that never wanes.
When I sit down and write.
When this happens, I feel like my fingertips are made of magic. I feel like there's this world that belongs only to me, and I at once feel wondrous and fulfilled, like... like life is already complete. Like I know why I'm here on Earth.
The longer I go without sharing my words, the fewer people I meet who just get it. Because if I'm not speaking, not writing, then how can my people find me? And if I'm not part of that world, how can I find them?
I didn't want to come back until I was working on something worthwhile. That's going to happen in January.
So now I can make art again.