Sugarfinger

In which our Hero feels something sticking to the tips of his fingers and the sound of remembered obsession in his ears

A little while ago, [Woman in the Moon] asked her readers if we wrote here because we wanted to or because we had to. And for the longest time, I needed to. I don’t know exactly why or how it works, but from the moment I started my supposedly experimental obsession, I have felt the need to write here. The OD called to me, and I was powerless to do anything but answer. And now, this past little while, I’ve been apart from here, I’ve been detached enough and tired enough that I didn’t have to do this, I didn’t *have* to write.

But then I got the oddest note asking if someone had been excluded in part or entirely, and that made me sad because it’s just something foreign to me. I understand the desire to manage different access groups but I find the idea of writing that way to be very uncomfortable. The only time that I’ve ever run a favourite only group, I’d add anybody who asked so long because it wasn’t about excluding people but just knowing who was accessing those entries.

So no, I haven’t been excluding anybody, and I wasn’t really planning to write anything, and I felt really badly for the potential hurt feelings, and so I figured I’d just write that little thing to acknowledge that I was on walkabout. And I posted it.

And…

You know when you touch something sugary and not quite dry, and there’s that sticky sensation that lingers even when nothing is actually sticking. Where you can feel that infinitesimally thin coating and it’s there with every other thing you touch.

Well I posted that entry to say that I was sure that I wasn’t here. And here stuck to my fingers. They tingle. Words aren’t flowing, but they dribble and clot in my head. And other things. Things happen that make me need a place to put them and here, here was always my place and here I am reminded of it and here is that place that when I am writing the pressure valve in my head isn’t screwed quite so tight and why do I resist?

I don’t know.

I have things to write about, but they feel redundant, the same thoughts, just an older me. I worry how often I repeat myself. I worry that I don’t tell stories anymore, not so much, not so well. Also, I’m very busy. I have to pick a fight with a telecommunications provider. The bastards. (Seriously, I had a whole tech-support phone call just to *GET* to make my call to tech support for the actual problem that my phone wouldn’t let me call in to fix)

So, am I coming back? Yes. Even discounting my duties as age canary, I’m coming back. Apparently sooner rather than later. Possibly even nowish, if I find an entry in me after this one. Probably boringer. I seem to be exceedingly good at that lately.

On the other hand, I fixed my internet cable today. And my phone, which has been insisting it’s dead since the spring.

And [Dallandrah] butchered a copy of her book and now I’m feeling guilty again, for murdering a copy of her book and now for inspiring a copy cat killing.

Now how the hell do I catch up on people’s diaries? Or can I just declare bankruptcy and mark everybody read?

And thank you, Gentle Readers, dear friends. Your care means a great deal to me.