The longer I put it off, the more difficult it will be.
So here I am, after all this time. All these unfinished posts in my drafts.
First there was a laptop that stopped working. Then there was an old laptop, unearthed from some cupboard somewhere. It huffs and puffs and shuts down unexpectedly.
But then, these things wouldn't really have stopped me had I actually felt like writing.
I lost my calendar far too many weeks ago. I've lost track of time and of my plans, of birthdays and weekdays and dates and of my body.
I'll find it, I thought. As soon as I go out to buy a new calendar, I'll find my old one.
So I've struggled by, and suddenly it's May and I don't know how I've arrived here. I haven't kept a diary, I've lost my calendar, I feel like I've slipped out of time. I can't remember what happened when, I can't remember where I'm supposed to be and when and why.
I've met people and got a job for the summer, I've opened the season of nights in parks, I've read poems and novels and textbooks and it all spills out of my head if I don't write it down.
Enough now. Tomorrow, a new calendar, a new diary, some fresh pens. The familiar loops of my own handwriting. A homecoming.