I miss writing here.  For years, it was what I did at the end of most days, a ritual but also a frame.  I liked marking time with words and how they felt as I wrote them, even when I had nothing of consequence to say.

It’s been long enough now that it feels strange, like a house I used to live in.  Still, I’m compelled to return at certain moments, if only to imagine what it would be like to live here again.

I tell myself that it’s okay: that there are times when writers write and times when they don’t.  And that it is hard to write when one is in limbo, which is the place I am living in now.

Sun in the twelfth house; Saturn in Virgo.  Even the stars are at a remove.