I need to re-establish my relationship with the written word. Writing, even in here, on a daily basis has been a struggle of late, let alone a page or two in my bigger books or writing anything long form. And when did I last look at my novel? At least a year ago I reckon and maybe even longer considering the first of that happened in 2020. Maybe tonight after my workout or run I should dedicate to writing some creative words down, for it is my main way of expressing myself and generating my creativity is it not? Is it the pinnacle of human art, the nadir of experience, for one cannot breathe life into a painting or sculpture like you can with words, like HDT says?

My experience of Tolstoy is different from yours. And the Scots enjoyment of Burns, for example, is obviously more profound than any other nationalities. Words breathe life. Life breathes words. Let’s breathe tonight oh pen and paper. Forget thy worries, sorrows and desperations. Engage with the hands and the brain, the pen in the hand and the written page. Flow, but breathe throughout and remind yourself why you are here.

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