sitting looking at the blinking cursor, there's a vague sense of being mocked one throbbing second at a time. for how does one encapsulate the passing years, the years now lived, and those to come? (though they may not be lived, but one can dream)
how can inactivity be excused from mountains of thought and doings and adventures not dictated anymore?
but look! now the cursor moves, and words fly out as a realisation hits. it's a small, timid nugget of truth, and I shall share it here.
though these past years have been lived and loved, silence has reigned on a website where i was once active, once a member of the community. i cannot say i am