Hermetic

It was insomnia in 2001, it is insomnia in 2010.

2001 was the beginning of my journey as a writer. With the exception of a couple of high school papers that I thought might be described as mildly amusing at the time, the first time I ever truly thought I might become a writer was the fall of my sophomore year in college, sometime after the twin towers fell and I was growing out my hair and dreaming of girls in the Rocky Mountains. I was also staying up til 3 or4 a.m. more nights than I wanted to, and after enough bouts of fretting over lost sleep and wasted time I started taking walks and writing poems about the stars outside of my window in the Butterfield dorms.

Those poems, whose actual pen-to-paper writing was inspired mostly by Ralph Waldo Emerson, turned into letters and e-mails and a true love of the challenge that is getting something onto a page that a big chunk of the population will enjoy reading, and seek to find more gems from the same author's future mind.

Here I am again, nearly a year after my last posting, jotting down thoughts at 3:30 a.m. on a Monday morning. There are a lot of things that I've moved on from in the last three years of my life, and I don't want blogging to be one of them.