Writing while not writing makes for bad writing, unless the art or constraint acts like, say, a poetic form, concentrating the conveyer, the purveyor, into a framework with rules whose limitations spark leaps of expressive intuition and innovation that might never be reached without the narrow options. I've thought many times--- more than a dozen--- of wanting to write of what goes on, yet I am constrained from doing so at large. Snippets of text and chat and phone calls and a brief letter--- there have been those.
I have a seemingly new appreciation for the value of---even the drive, the need for---expression in clarifying one's feelings, one's emotional reality, even one's rational reality. Forming the world. Stitching together a narrative, or a loose linear pathway along which powerful, breathtaking, dramatic and still-tender revolutions of the soul can be situated so's to make enough sense that they can be accepted, taken in, experienced as they are, like the stuff of meditation that life, best lived, boils down to.
Folks, it's been quite a weekend. Dreamy wistful subtle smiley emoticon.