And just like that I was back

Old friend, New song

And once again I’m pierced

Now I sit here (as many of us have)

Do I even have the time to do this correctly? (I ask feebly)

Does one ever?

The reason to begin again is never because it makes sense

Those of us who do this… whose blood have traced the tales of old…

We never sharpen our quills out of boredom or calculation

There is no calculus to the heart

It’s never that we realize something new

We’ve always one more story in reserve

The fear (and it’s real) is that this one might be the last

What if the Muse never returns?

This is the nature of our fear

It isn’t that the tale won’t be told

It’s that there will never be another bursting for its release

So is it time?

What if I wait?

Wouldn’t it be…..

There is no calculus to the heart