n.i.n.e.t.i.e.s.

it's an odd feeling that familiarity of place shared between years, epochs even; stranger still is how quickly it comes upon you. i'm partial to wind. just a week ago it was arid santa ana's rattling down the windows at 763, now its eleventh grade and i'm laboring over impossibly unquantifiable intro to painting and drawing homework. there's always an open window too. always air and a wooden desk. and with it comes that dull cold hinting at some great vastness. that's the muse, of course, the wind and air. and that's the conflict: the impossible future and the untenable mediocre today. it was then as it is now. nothing new, nothing original.

resurgens.

it killed the desire to write. mine anyways. that was the worst part about being denied doctoral studies and that was two years ago. i ask, then, "what is it to want to write and to never take up the pen?" i hope to answer in kind.